


ramble on

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Season/Series 15, Season/Series 15 Spoilers, mostly because of source material
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 23:51:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: A series of Season 15 codas, crossposted to tumblr. Tags, Warnings, and Rating may change, based on source material.to the future, and the future--15.01be like wool--15.02a question of perspective--15.02grief like a marathon--15.03nothing means anything anymore--15.05an ocean of silence--15.06nothing is ever enough--15.06where no words abide—15.07made in the heart--15.08the name of love practiced--15.09the calm before the storm--15.11





	1. 15.01--to the future, and the future

**Author's Note:**

> A collection for my coda fic from Season 15. I might do every episode, I might not. Fics will have a distinct Destiel tilt because I am the trash that I am.

Theoretically, Castiel should be happier. He and Sam saved that mother and child, and the spell was enacted to trap the ghosts. They saved a town. Castiel should be happy. 

The chatter of the townspeople fills his head until it’s all that he can hear. Even though the cacophony is almost deafening, Castiel appreciates it. Normally he has the steady hum and static of angel radio in the back of his head but for the past day it’s been silent. Not a blip, not anything. 

Castiel wonders if Heaven is even there anymore, or if Chuck took that with him when he went, too. 

He can’t stop moving. He brushes by a young mother, offers a wan smile as she starts to ask him a question, and steps outside. The sun is just setting, throwing off spears of pink and orange into the horizon. A soft breeze rustles the trees and tugs playfully at the hem of his coat. The place they’re at now, the high school, is idyllic. The grass is green and almost gleaming, the trees are neat, and even the trash cans look like they’re minding their p’s and q’s. 

It’s beautiful. The world is spinning, the breeze is flowing, the grass is growing, and it’s all so beautiful that Castiel can feel each and every molecule pressing against him. 

It’s obscene. 

_Every_ molecule presses against him. When it’s just the simple, loose compounds of the air, it’s one thing, but when it’s the air, the worry of a town, the lingering knowledge of the festering wound on Sam’s chest, the stretching black lines creeping out from under the edge of garish white glasses, the itching, revolting presence of the demon in Jack’s, in his _boy’s_ body, the constant weight and pressure of Dean’s continuing anger and disdain…

Angels don’t breathe, but even if he wanted to, Castiel doesn’t think that he’d be able. The events of the past 24 hours are an iron vise around his chest, squeezing so tight that it hurts. It hurts, and Castiel is tired of things hurting. 

The loss of Jack is a constant, empty ache in his chest. The agony ebbs and flows, and just when Castiel thinks that he’s over the worst of it, something will happen. He’ll catch sight of the abomination wearing his boy, or he’ll remember how it sounded when Jack was being burned out of his body and…A fingernail catches on the edge of the ragged wound, pulling it open, and it bleeds fresh. Castiel’s left gasping, reeling, and he realizes then that he’s never going to be all right. He’s never going to move past this. 

And Dean. And Dean. 

That _Good_, tossed out so carelessly, so spitefully. It was meant to hurt, which, well done for him. It did. The _good_ lingers in his chest, right against the hurt from Jack. Sometimes they brush together, in an exquisite conflagration of failure and loss. 

Anger features in there somewhere, the anger at Jack for fleeing without letting them help, anger at Sam for not being able to restrain Dean, anger at Mary for allowing herself to be caught in such a situation. Anger at Dean for taking this, this shining, delicate thing and shattering it so thoughtlessly. Anger at himself for ever thinking that he could have something pure, something good.

He hasn’t even allowed himself to process the suppurating wound of Chuck. He doesn’t think that he can. 

“Nice night, huh?”

At first Castiel thinks that he’s imagining the voice. He did that, sometimes. In the mental ward, in Purgatory, while he was human. He would create whole scenarios around the sound of Dean’s voice. But then he looks to his right and no, it’s not a hallucination. Dean is really there, standing beside him, close enough that their elbows brush with every expansion of his chest. 

“If you take away the zombies, ghosts, and absence of god, then yes,” Castiel answers. “It’s not raining at least.”

“All right Igor.” At Castiel’s pointed silence, Dean scoffs. “Come on. _Young Frankenstein_? I made you watch it.” 

“I remember,” Castiel says softly. Those were happier times–perched on a chair in Dean’s room, his fingers greasy with butter from the popcorn, his tie loosened around his neck. Jack’s laughter echoed around the room, while Sam smiled with all the indulgence of a senile uncle. And Dean, Dean had laughed with his mouth full, spraying little bits of popcorn as he nudged Castiel, pointing out his favorite parts and sometimes talking over them so that Sam had to roll his eyes and rewind the movie. 

“Yeah, well.” Dean doesn’t mention the memories of that night, not that Castiel was expecting him to. “We’ve got other problems right now.”

“Yes we do.” 

It’s always been like this between them. Why has it always been like this? For ten years, they’ve been so close that Castiel bleeds when the Winchesters are hurt, and yet…He and Dean stand on opposite sides of a canyon and neither one of them is willing to begin building the bridge to span the distance. 

Millions of years of existence and Castiel finds that he is tired. 

“Look, I’m still…” Dean waves his hand in a gesture that Castiel supposes is meant to encompass every pitfall and problem between the two of them. “And I’m gonna be that way for a while. But…” Dean sighs and the sound hits Castiel hard in the chest. It’s the sound of an ancient man, a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Atlas had a lighter burden to bear. 

“But I said once that I needed you and that ain’t changed. Not now, not ever.” Dean looks at him. The lines around his eyes are deeper than they used to be. Dean’s gotten older, Castiel realizes. He’d never noticed. “So don’t…You, me, and Sam. You know that there’s nothing we can’t do, if we’re together.” 

The words are rout and Dean doesn’t even bother trying to put conviction into them. They fall, empty and hollow, into the gaping spot in Castiel where he used to keep his hope. But still, there’s some kind of strength in Dean, one that drew him in years ago, one that keeps him here, despite everything. 

“So are you with us?” There’s something plaintive in Dean’s voice, moreso in his eyes. _Stay_, Dean’s eyes ask. _Please_. 

Something unfurls in Castiel’s chest, like the first touch of spring on barren ground. It’s not much, in fact it’s barely anything, but it feels warm. It feels like hope. 

“Of course,” Castiel answers. 

“Until the end.”


	2. 15.02--be like wool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't believe in forgiveness.

_“Come now, let us settle the matter,” said the LORD. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are as red as crimson, they shall be like wool.” –Isaiah 1:18_

Forgiveness is weakness. 

That thought was beaten into his brain long ago, by his father, by other hunters, by life itself. By God, it turns out. Every time Dean tries to turn the other cheek, every single time, he only gets slapped again, except harder. And that’s if he’s lucky. If he’s not lucky, then he gets punched. Maybe even shot. 

Anyone who hurt you would do again, if given the right set of circumstances. It’s why Dad always said that once a monster killed, they had to be put down. Like a dog that tasted blood–you had to put it down, otherwise the flock was never safe afterward. 

Dean doesn’t forgive. And he doesn’t forget. So when Cas, fucking _Castiel_, shows his face, he can’t stop the instinctive surge of anger that’s tied to Mom, tied to Jack, tied to betrayal, and how many times is Cas going to lie to him before Dean wises up and realizes that no matter how many beers he drinks, no matter how many idioms he masters, Cas is always going to be an angel? He’s never going to understand human emotions, certainly never going to feel them. 

Cas doesn’t understand the howling chasm of rage and loss that swirls in the pit of Dean’s stomach. The continuous torrent makes him sick. Every time Dean manages to catch a few minutes of sleep, he wakes angry, with his eyes narrowed to a laser focus and his mouth tasting like bile. 

Jack was his–no, he was theirs, there was never a moment when Jack was purely his–Jack was their son. Jack killed Mom. Chuck killed Jack. 

Chuck broke the world, and for no other reason than he didn’t approve of improv. 

Cas…just complicates everything further. 

With his apologies and his _He was ours_, and his dreams of family, and his _We are_…Dean can’t look at Cas without seeing Mom, without feeling the weight of her body in his arms, without scenting her shampoo. 

And now she’s gone, just when he’d gotten her back, and Dean can’t…He can’t…

So he focuses on the mission, on the problem directly in front of him, on the fact that the world is splitting apart at the seams. He puts band-aids on disasters as they arise, and all the while he swallows that kernel of hatred and anger and lets it rot inside him. Because worse than the grief, worse than the loss, worse than knowing that his entire life was scripted for him by a deadbeat writer trying for a daytime Emmy…worse than all of that is the _need_ that boils inside him. 

He needs Cas with him. Sam on one side, Cas on the other, and that’s how they get through things. That’s how they survive, that’s how they _win_. He needs Cas’ infinite compassion, his endurance, his intelligence…He needs _Cas_. He has for a long time. 

He’s like a magnet caught in a never-ending cycle of attraction and repellence, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before he explodes. He just hopes that he can manage to put some of these damn ghosts to rest before it happens. 

He finds Cas outside the school, sitting on one of the benches. His hands are folded, as if he’s in prayer. For all Dean knows, the poor stupid son of a bitch might be. He hates that about Cas, the need to believe in something greater than himself, the unwavering devotion to serve. He loves that Cas still has a nugget of faith somewhere in him. 

“It’s getting cold,” Dean greets. Cas’ head jerks towards him, surprise evident in his eyes. Dean allows himself the human emotion of amusement: it’s not that often that you sneak up on an angel. He sees Cas getting ready to respond. Years of experience have taught him to anticipate Cas’ response. “Yeah, I know, you don’t feel the cold. Good for you.” 

Cas regards him steadily, but his eyes are a fucking warzone. Once Cas discovered the wide world of human emotions, he’s always worn his heart on his sleeve. His struggle is writ clear in the irises of his baby blues: the naked misery over losing Jack, the lingering resentment that Dean hasn’t told Belphagor to go back to Hell yet, the same fear that he feels–_Are they enough? Will they be enough? Is there any way that any of them make it out of this alive?_ There’s the longing, which Dean pretends like he doesn’t see. 

So Cas is conflicted. Join the fucking club pal. 

“Was there a reason you came here?” Cas’ voice is stiff. Aloofness doesn’t fit him well, and he’s still stretching to fill the crevices. 

Rage rises in him, by now an obedient dog coming willingly, if not eagerly, to its master’s call. How dare–How dare Cas, after everything he did, after everything that happened…But then he remembers the particular way that Cas’ face broke after Dean pushed past him, the strength in his voice as he said _We Are_. 

Even after everything, Cas is still fighting for him. For them. 

“I’m tired.” The confession slips out of him like smoke, gone before Dean can even think about yanking it back. “I’m just…I’m so fucking tired Cas.” 

Cas doesn’t even blink, doesn’t waver. “So rest,” he says, as if it were that easy. Maybe it is. 

Bonelessly, Dean slips onto the bench. The night air closes around him, nips at his neck and wrists and threatens to slip underneath the fabric of his jacket, but when he sits closer to Cas, the cold disappears. His forehead finds its way onto Cas’ shoulder and Dean breathes in the scent of him, grass after a rainstorm, sharp hint of ozone. It’s Cas, and Dean falls into him. 

“I’m so tired,” he repeats, until the words slur together in a never-ending mantra. “Cas, Cas, I’m so tired.” 

Cas’ fingers thread through his hair and rub at his scalp. Dean hates him, purely and viciously. In a way, he’s hated Cas for years. 

“So rest,” Cas murmurs. It might be Dean’s imagination, but he thinks he feels the brush of lips over his forehead. He feels Cas’ breath ruffle through his hair, feels Cas’ fingers settle at the nape of his neck. Dean needs him, Dean loves him, so fiercely that he can’t breathe around the pain of it. “So rest Dean.” 

It’s not anything close to forgiveness. It might never be. But Dean doesn’t need forgiveness. What he needs is right here, as steady as the earth and unknowable as the unwritten page. 

_“So watch yourselves. “If your brothers and sisters sin against you, rebuke them, and if they repent, forgive them. Even if they sin against you seven times in a day, and seven times come back to you saying ‘I repent’, you must forgive them.” –Luke 17:3-4_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you want to find me on tumblr, you can do so [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dothwrites). I'm awkward but occasionally funny.


	3. 15.02--a question of perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality means different things to different people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, my time throwing my hat in the ring with the iconic WE ARE. No matter how many fics I write, I'll never achieve that kind of peak romance.

_Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems–but as you approach the present, it seems incredible. –Salman Rushdie_

Castiel watches Dean walk away. His last words echo in the room, clinging to the walls and battering against his skull and heart. 

_You asked if any of this was real. We are._

Sometimes, Dean forgets that Castiel has the experience of eons. Dean’s perspective is limited, flawed. Human. Castiel’s perspective is that of the cosmos–timeless, eternal. Omniscient, or the closest thing to it. Sometimes, Dean forgets that for all of his foibles and failures, Castiel is still made of the fabric of the universe, that Castiel was ancient long before mankind built their first cities. He has seen the rise and fall of empires, the shift of continents, and the death of species and yet…The Winchesters are a wound, one from which he will not recover. Centuries, and millennia, and epochs, and all it took was two scruffy humans to shift Castiel’s world. 

From the moment his grace reached out to touch Dean Winchester’s soul, Castiel’s reality was altered. _I was blind and now I see_–Castiel didn’t understand the hymn until he held the Righteous Man and burst out of Hell. Thousands of choices opened to him, including the most forbidden and tantalizing of all: free will. 

Castiel understands, in a way that Dean never can–reality is not the course set up for you. It is the way in which you run that course. 

Dean doesn’t understand. How could he? He never saw the other possibilities, not the way that Castiel did. 

With the eyes of the cosmos, Castiel has seen a thousand realities rise and crumple under the weight of possibility. A choice not taken here, a wrong turn taken there, and the world shifts to accommodate that choice. Reality changes to conform to the choice. And the choice, always, always, _always_, comes down to the individual. 

Dean, with his independence and stubbornness, wants anarchy. He wants to be cut loose from the script, to throw away the book and burn it. Castiel attempted that, once. It ended in bloodshed and terror. Sometimes having the structure set up is not necessarily a bad thing. 

_We are_. 

In the end, reality is not the story which Chuck created. It’s the series of choices which led to Dean and Sam Winchester seeking refuge in a high school that smells of mildew and sweat. It’s the love and friendship which kept them fighting, kept them trying. It’s rebellion and falling and failing. 

Reality is what Castiel can reach out and touch. Reality is Jack’s wide-eyed curiosity about the world around him. Reality is Sam’s kindness, a strong hand on his shoulder. Reality is Dean’s knee pressing against his leg, Dean’s arm slung around his shoulder. Reality is the knowledge that Castiel chose all of this, the pain, the joy, the horror, the happiness–He _chose_ it. No one forced him. 

He chose Dean Winchester, again and again. He might not have created the path, but he choose his own way, every single time. And that is real. Dean Winchester might have been the culmination of a centuries long story, but Castiel chose to follow him, to stay with him. No one forced his hand. Not even Chuck could sway him. 

In the end, it has only ever been about their choices. 

And Castiel will choose Dean Winchester, every single time. 

_Reality does not conform to the ideal, but confirms it. –Gustave Flaubert_


	4. 15.03--grief like a marathon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can't breathe.

_I crawled into the side of the bed that I knew no one had been–Your grief always like a marathon to the rest of the world’s sprint. –Ivy, Andrea Gibson_

The door closes gently. The sound still manages to echo around the empty war room, echo around the emptiness in his chest. Dean almost wishes that he’d slammed the door. At least then, he’d have a reason why he couldn’t get the sound out of his head. 

He can’t breathe. The door closed, and the hollow click echoes in his head, and Dean, he can’t…He can’t breathe. 

He’s had his lungs torn apart, he’s had fingers reach into his chest and curl around his heart, but now, standing alone in the war room, his fingers curled around the chair like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him upright…And he can’t breathe. 

Heat prickles at the back of his eyes and nose and Dean swallows it down. He pushes it into that pit inside of him, the one where everything eventually goes. He swallows, and he swallows, and he swallows, but the pain keeps on coming, keeps sneaking around every barrier that he throws up. Footsteps on the stairs, the door closing, agony clawing its way up his chest, and Dean…He can’t breathe. 

He hadn’t actually thought that Cas would leave. 

Eleven years and…

He really thought that Cas wouldn’t leave. 

He’d thought it was a bluff, that somehow, Cas would change his mind. That a few minutes later, Cas would come slinking back in, tail between his legs, and lurk around the edges of his favor. He’d really, honestly thought that Cas would be with him until the end, whatever that looked like. 

He should have known better. Everyone leaves in the end. Everyone. Maybe they don’t want to, maybe they’re forced to, but in the end…Dad, Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Kevin, Charlie, Mom, Jack, even fucking Rowena, and Crowley, and Ketch…everyone leaves. He’d just thought that Cas would be the exception that proved the rule. 

For years, Dean has built his foundations based upon two supports: Sam on one side, and Castiel on the other and now…He can’t breathe. 

He wishes that Cas had yelled at him. He wishes that Cas’ eyes had flashed blue, that Cas had torn the library apart with the force of his rage. Dean could have understood that, could have fought against that. The hollow clang of his steps on the stairs, the defeated click of the door shutting? Dean can’t understand that. His brain runs in circles and scrabbles at loose ends, tries to find a way that Cas hasn’t left him–_Cas always comes back, Cas was trapped in Purgatory and still found a way back to him, Cas died and still managed to drag himself back_–but there was something so final, so damning about his last words. 

_Time for me to move on_. 

Like this was a pit stop for him. 

Dean knows that he’s being unfair. That’s the worst part really, is the knowledge that this was preventable. The red flags, waved in front of him with a matador’s precision, all of them saying _Stop now, this is a dangerous road to tread_. But Dean threw himself down that road, wholeheartedly. He’d taken some kind of pleasure in watching Cas flinch at every small cruelty thrown his way, targeted every weak spot in Cas’ armor with a sadist’s glee, because he’d known that at the end of it, Cas would still be standing there beside him. Maybe a little more bruised, maybe a little chipped around the edges, but Cas would still be there. 

Except…that door, those steps, _time for me to move on_, and Dean can’t breathe. Cas is gone, the kind of gone that’s done deliberately, the kind of gone that doesn’t come back. 

Dean can’t breathe. 

He stays in the war room for hours, staring at the door, waiting for Cas to come back. Waiting for that door to open again, waiting for something. He stays until he can feel the shift in his rhythm that tells him that the sun is rising, he stays until his legs tremble from exhaustion. He stays, and he waits, and the door doesn’t open, and Cas stays gone, and Dean still can’t breathe. 

—

The next day, he runs into Sam in the kitchen. He meets his brother’s red-rimmed eyes head on and says nothing, until Sam asks, in a hoarse, shredded voice, “Where’s Cas?”

“He’s gone,” Dean says, brusque. Final. 

Sam’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Where’d he need to go?” Like Cas just needed to pop to the store. 

“Cas is gone,” Dean says. He puts steel and ice into his voice, dips down into that part of himself that’s hard, that part of himself that pushed Cas away until he finally left, proving Dean’s theory right: Everyone always leaves. No one ever stays. 

“He’s gone, Sammy,” Dean repeats. The words echo in the kitchen, and Dean hears them the same way he hears _Time for me to move on_, the same way he hears the footsteps walking away, the same way he hears the door close–

_Three hours I stared at the window, loving you, then turned towards your ear and whispered that I had to go. You uncurled from a dream and said Okay Honey. And I went to wherever the ivy goes in the winter, and for the same reasons.–Ivy, Andrea Gibson_


	5. 15.05--nothing means anything anymore

\---

_I had someone once who made every day mean something. And now…I am lost…And nothing means anything anymore.–Ranata Suzuki_

—

_How are we supposed to fight God?_

The question sits like a stone in the pit of his stomach. It’s with him when he showers, when he dabs antiseptic around the cuts on his side, when he eases into a shirt and into his bed. It sits on his chest, it lurks in his mind, it rises in his throat. It’s what he breathes, what he sees. Inescapable. Total. 

It’s…They were done. 

They were _done_. 

The walls press in around him. He’s never thought that the bunker was suffocating, but here it is, 4 am and he can’t breathe because the walls are closing in around him. He thinks that if he was in the middle of the Grand Canyon, it still wouldn’t be enough. These aren’t real walls, they’re Chuck’s fingers, squeezing around his and Sam’s neck until finally–

Michael was right, the bastard. _Chuck just writes drafts and discards them_, he’d said, and goddammit all, he was right. What had that been? Some weird crossover? 

Dean’s never…Even at the darkest point, even when the Apocalypse was looming, even when he was losing pieces of himself to the Mark, even when the Darkness was pressing around him, even when he was waking up with splitting headaches because Michael was screaming inside his head–There had always been a plan. There had always been some other action to take, something to do, something to fight. There had been something. But now…The gerbil wheel goes faster and faster and there’s no way off and there’s nothing, there’s _nothing_–

It takes him a second to realize that he’s hyperventilating, breath turning the pillow damp. His teeth bite into the pillow, fingers tear at the sheets. He needs…he needs…

He screams into his pillow, a muffled, broken sound that rips his throat raw. It tears out from his lungs, from his heart, but it doesn’t help, it can’t help–Everyone they lost along the way–Dad, Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Kevin, Charlie, Jack…Mom…It was nothing. It was nothing but Chuck getting bored. His whole life and it’s been nothing but fucking God having a hard-on for watching him break until there’s nothing left to shatter. 

Well, the fucker might get his wish. Because right now…There’s nothing left. 

It’s not a conscious decision to reach for his phone. It’s not a conscious decision to press the name that he’s been avoiding for weeks, the name that he’s tried to forget. 

For weeks he’s avoided calling Cas. For weeks he hasn’t texted him. He knows that Sam’s called him–he’d be stupid to miss the furtive, guilty looks, or the way that Sam shoves his phone in his back pocket whenever Dean enters a room. But Dean’s kept himself separate, apart. He changes the subject whenever Sam asks why Cas isn’t texting him back or why all his calls go straight to voicemail. 

He still hasn’t told Sam about that night. The finality in Cas’ words. The resignation in his eyes, the resolution in his steps. He’d seen that same look in Cassie’s eyes, in Lisa’s. It was the look of someone when they said goodbye and meant it. He’d known then, when Cas tilted his head and the ghost of what might have been a smile crossed his face, that that was it. Cas was gone. 

And Dean had respected that, he had. He put his head down and kept on, and it had been fine. It had been fine. He and Sam would keep on doing what they were doing, and he would find new weird jerkies to eat, and it would have been fine. 

But then, Chuck, and Lilith and…Dean can’t breathe, he can’t get any air into his lungs, nothing means anything anymore. He’s drowning, he’s falling, and he can’t tell it to Sam because Sam’s just barely hanging on, and he can’t tell it to Cas, because Cas is…Cas had…

The phone rings. Once. Twice. 

—

In his dreams, Cas picks up the phone. Cas answers in that stiff way that he always does, with the weird pause that gives him away as something not originally of this world. In Dean’s fantasies, Cas answers because he can feel the force of Dean’s desperation, his need, and even though he’s angry, he listens. 

In his dreams, Dean tells Cas everything. He apologizes and Cas listens. In his dreams, Dean is a better person, one who can admit when he’s wrong. In his dreams, Dean apologizes and Cas listens, and at the end, Cas says _I’ll be there as soon as I can_. 

In his dreams, Cas agrees to come back, says that he’ll see Dean in a few hours, and before they hang up, Dean says _I love you_, easy as anything, and Cas pauses for a second, before he answers back, smile in his voice, Of course, _I love you too_. 

In his dreams, Cas answers and the gerbil wheel stops, if only for a second.

—

Four times. Five. 

Voicemail. 

After two weeks, hearing Cas’ voice is a sucker punch, even if it’s only the same, irritated voicemail that he’s had for years. Dean closes his eyes and bites back a sob and it’s only when he hears the discordant beep of the recorder that he realizes that he got lost in the soft growl of Cas’ voice. 

And now it’s his chance to speak and he doesn’t…There are no words. There’s nothing that can…

“Hey. It’s me. Um. Dean. I uh, I guess you already got Sam’s message. About Chuck and Lilith and…” 

The weight of the night crashes on his shoulders, as subtle as an oncoming locomotive, and Dean’s voice wavers. Suddenly, there are too many words and they pour out of him. It’s unstoppable, blood gushing out of an artery and Dean sits in his room, breath ragged in his throat and pours his soul into an answering machine. 

“I don’t know what to do. I just…I don’t know what to do and I can’t…Sam’s trying to be hopeful but I just can’t…Lilith says that it always ends the same way for Chuck, one of us killing the other, and I don’t know how we can stop it, I don’t know how we can even think of fighting…fighting God, fuck, I don’t…” Dean’s voice breaks in the middle, awful as the time he broke his arm when he was fourteen on a poltergeist hunt. “I’m scared Cas, I’m really scared and I need…I want…I need you to come back. I can’t do this by myself, I can’t…I _need_ you here. Please.” 

He listens to the silence on the other end. The jagged sound of his own breathing fills the room, along with the wet rustle of snot in his nose. He’s crying, Dean realizes with some detachment, big, soppy fat tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“Please. I know…I know that I fucked up, I know that, I know that I don’t have any right to ask you for anything but I’m asking anyway–_please_. Please come back.”

At that, Dean hangs up before he can say anything else stupid, before he can humiliate himself anymore. He places the phone down on the mattress and wastes a few minutes staring at it. 

—

In his dreams, Cas calls back. He calls Dean like he always does, with that split-second of surprise that Dean picked up. Dean can always hear the smile in Cas’ voice when he says _hello_ and he never told Cas how much he cherished that little nugget of warmth in his chest. In his dreams, Cas calls back and Dean asks him to come back. Dean asks him to stay. 

In his dreams, Cas calls back and Dean asks him to stay and Cas says _Of course_.

In his dreams, Dean says _I miss you_ and Cas says, _I missed you too_. 

In his dreams, Cas calls back, and Cas stays.

—

Dean stares at his phone until his eyes fuzz out. He stares at the phone until exhaustion and gravity take over and his eyes droop closed. He falls into a restless, fitful sleep and dreams of the clacking of typewriter keys. He dreams of ash, and death, and loss, of never-ending wheels, and a slowly constricting noose. He wakes with the taste of blood in his mouth. 

—

Cas doesn’t call back.

So it goes.

—

_Our parting was like a stalemate. Neither of us won. Yet both of us lost. And worse still…that unshakeable feeling that nothing was ever really finished.–Ranata Suzuki_


	6. 15.06--an ocean of silence

\---

_There is an ocean of silence between us. And I am drowning in it.–Ranata Suzuki_

—

“And check your damn messages.” 

The words stick in Dean’s throat, vicious and painful. They manage to worm their way through, but there’s so many other words that want to claw their way out–_What the fuck are you doing in fucking Idaho, why the fuck didn’t you listen to your messages, come back, God’s back and we need you, come back, God’s been writing our story all this time and I have no idea which way is up and which way is right, come back, we need you, I need you, I need you–_

But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say any of it. Instead, he says “Check your damn messages,” and punches the end call button before he can say any of the words begging to escape. 

—

Castiel waits until he’s sitting in his cabin before he checks his phone. 

For weeks now he’s been watching the messages pile on top of each other, not bothering to check them. He didn’t want to feel that pang in his chest when he realized that none of them were from Dean. 

He feels it now, scrolling through the messages–Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam…Something foreign and hot, clogs in his throat. If Dean had cared, just enough to send one single message, just some hint that he cared, even a little…

He listens to Sam’s voicemail from one week ago. He can hear the barely restrained emotion in Sam’s voice, present in the tiny wobbles and the small hitches of his breath. Sam says that Chuck, that God is back. That he never really left. That Lilith is back. That everything–Jack, Rowena–was all for nothing. 

That he lost everything. For _nothing_. 

Again.

_If I stay, nothing changes_, he’d said, but if he goes back, then nothing changes. From whichever way he looks at it–nothing changes. In the end, God will still be there, Jack will still be gone, and Dean…Well. Nothing will change. 

Just hearing Dean’s voice on the other end of the line, hearing the particular way that Dean’s voice shaped his name–_Cas_. Until Dean Winchester, he had always been Castiel. There had never been any other option. Then he met Dean, talked to Dean, and immediately, Dean began chipping away at him, starting with his name. It wasn’t until years later that Castiel looked at the shape of himself and didn’t recognize what he saw. It wasn’t until years later that he realized that Dean Winchester had molded him, with the care and precision of a master sculptor, into whatever Dean had wanted to see. And _Castiel_, whoever that angel had been, was lost forever. 

—

He drives back to the bunker. In the end, he doesn’t know what else to do. _Get back in the game_, he’d said, arrogant in the moment, still riding high on the release of his rage. He forgot that he’d closed that door behind him and thrown away the key. Not literally–the key to the bunker still sits in the pocket of his coat but. 

When he drove away, he’d honestly never expected to see the bunker again. And now…the gravel road is still the same, winding down to the forgotten entrance. Out here, there’s no light pollution, and Castiel’s headlights cut through the darkness to land on the figure of a woman. 

Something hot and unpleasant clenches in Castiel’s chest. Ridiculous, given their circumstances, but…The woman turns around, suspicion narrowing her eyes as her hand goes to her waist. Castiel catches a glimpse of a gun tucked into her waistband. Not a civilian then. 

He gets out of the truck, but leaves the headlights on her so that she has to squint to see him. It gives him the advantage, however brief. He just hopes that she’ll think before shooting him. His grace…well. He might not recover so easily from a gunshot as he once did. 

“Hello?” The woman doesn’t answer his call. A vague rush of foreboding prickles through Castiel’s body. His blade rests in his coat sleeve, heavy with intent. “Hello?” he calls again, louder. 

“Hello?” answers him. There’s a thickness to the voice, a slurring of the syllables that means–

Castiel shifts so that the light illuminates his body instead of silhouetting him. “Hello?” he asks again, making sure to face the woman directly so that she can see the movement of his lips. 

“Who are you?” she asks, never moving her hand away from the gun. 

“Castiel,” he answers. 

The tension in her posture relaxes and her hand falls away from the gun. “Oh.” Her eyes fall on him again, with a different kind of consideration. “You’re Castiel.” Her mouth twists as she takes him in–the holes in his shirt where the bullets tore through, the blood spattered on his shirt and neck. He can feel it on his face, pulling unpleasantly at his skin whenever he moves. He’d done his best to try and clean himself before he left, but it had been a quick job. As for his clothes–he didn’t have the infinistirmal amount of grace that it would take to clean his suit. He’s been carefully ignoring that fact, and he continues to do so with a neat little mental sidestep. 

“You’re an angel?” the woman asks. Skepticism is in her tone, and Castiel doesn’t blame her. He’s a skeptic as well. 

“A poor excuse for one,” he answers. He doesn’t realize, until he sees the quick flash of pity in the woman’s eyes, how pathetic that sounds. “And you are?” he asks, swiftly changing the subject. “I thought I knew all the other hunters but I don’t–”

“Eileen.” She extends her hand and Castiel takes it. Her shake is firm and strong, her skin warm. “Eileen Leahy.” 

The name sparks the faintest recollection of a memory and though Castiel doesn’t pull away, his hand jerks in her grasp. Eileen’s eyes sparkle at him, mirth dancing in their depths at his reaction. “You were dead,” Castiel says, because he remembers now. Eileen, who was killed by the British Men of Letters. Eileen, who Sam always spoke of with fondness and regret. Eileen, who stands in front of him now, whole and vibrant and alive, while so many others are dead and scattered into dust. 

“Weren’t you?” she asks. 

Despite everything, a smile breaks across Castiel’s face. “I suppose so,” he answers. “It seems to be a recurring theme for…” He stops himself before the words tumble out of his mouth. _A recurring theme for residents of this place_. 

He can’t say that. He’s not a resident here anymore, if he ever was. “For hunters,” he finishes lamely. Eileen’s expression tells him that he’s not really fooling her, but she doesn’t press. Once again, Castiel is grateful for the strange generosity of humans, the way that even though they can be harsh and cruel, petty and thoughtless, they’re also so gentle and careful with veritable strangers. 

“So why are you out here? I thought that this was normally the time that humans spent sleeping.” 

Eileen shrugs, glancing up at the stars. “Being dead for a few years–Sleep is kind of overrated at this point?” Her fingers flex in the fabric of her jacket as she turns in a slow circle. “Plus, i just like it out here. In there, it’s…”

“It can be stifling,” Castiel answers. The underground nature of the bunker, the way that two human men can take up so much space. The way that a single human can force his presence on an angel until they crumple underneath the weight of it. 

Eileen nods. A faint smile crosses her face as she looks around the bleak landscape surrounding the bunker. “You miss this,” she says, more to herself than Castiel. “The breeze, the smell. The feel of it.” She looks at him, a little shyly. “Do you want to go in?” she asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door. 

“No,” Castiel answers, settling down on the steps. 

“I’m fine staying out here for a while.” 

—

After an hour passes, Sam comes outside to find them.

He’s obviously not expecting any company, dressed only in a thin shirt and pajama pants. He didn’t even bother to put shoes on before he came outside, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. His hair is tousled and sticking up in the back. Castiel wonders what’s between him and Eileen, that he would leave his bed and sleep to search for her. 

“Hey, I woke up and saw that you–” Sam pauses, his eyes lighting on Castiel’s form. He blinks away the slumber as his posture straightens and awareness filters back into his expression. “Cas.” His tone is carefully neutral. “I didn’t know that you were here.” 

“I just got here a few hours ago.” Eileen’s eyes flick back and forth between Sam’s face and his. Even though she can’t hear the obvious tension in their words, she can pick it up through the blatant discomfort in their body language. 

“I’m going to go back inside,” she says, and before either of them can say goodbye, Eileen bolts back inside. Castiel is left with Sam who has a strange mixture of longing, worry, and irritation on his face. 

“Did you get my messages?” he finally asks, leaning against the wall. Castiel wonders if he should stand, but nixes the idea. Even the thought takes too much effort. 

“I listened to them earlier.” 

“And why…” Sam is losing the fight against his irritation. He blows out a short breath and folds his arms against his chest. He seems incapable of looking at Castiel for longer than a stretch of thirty seconds. “Why didn’t you answer? Where were you?”

Irritation bristles its ugly head. Castiel grits his jaw to keep all of his roiling, seething anger inside. Sam Winchester doesn’t get to question him like this, doesn’t get to make demands of him; it’s not like he’s…

“I needed to be away. From here.” Castiel bites out the words. 

Sam finally looks at him, bleak frustration in his eyes. “Because of Jack? Cas, we all miss him. But it’s complicated and…”

Castiel’s anger and grief explode outward, a volcano finally reaching its critical state. He stands up, coat swirling around him as he stalks to Sam. He forgets his lingering weakness, the jelly state of his graceless body as he stands within an inch of Sam. 

“_Complicated_? You _miss_ him? You and your brother were the ones who tried to lock him away from the world for all eternity, and when that didn’t work, you were the ones who put a gun to his head. And now you have the…” Castiel’s mouth works for a second as he tries to find the correct word, “the _arrogance_, to come to me and tell me that you miss him? That you’re sad that Chuck finished the job instead of you?” 

“Cas, that’s not fair,” Sam tries, but Castiel can tell by the fraying sound of his voice that he’s on the end of his tether as well. “You don’t understand–Jack killed Mom and–”

“No, I understand very well the Winchester definition of _family_,” Castiel spits out, then stops, chest heaving. He feels raw on the inside, like something came through and scraped its claws through every part of him. 

He never should have come back. He sees that now. 

If Castiel had actually reached out and slapped him, Sam could not look more confused or hurt. His mouth hangs open and his eyes reflect a sort of helpless pain that Castiel can identify with all too well. He knows what it feels like to have the people you took for granted in your life suddenly shift and change until you no longer know how to navigate through the new sharp edges. He knows what it feels like to get cut to ribbons on someone. 

“What…what the hell happened?” Sam finally asks, rubbing his jaw. “Cas, what…why did you leave?” 

And there it is. The question that he should have been asking all along, now delivered, too late to help anyone. 

Castiel doesn’t want to punish Sam. That’s never what this was about, but he can’t, he can’t…He can’t sit here and pour out the ugly remains of his life, his hopes, he can’t sit there and be a willing participant in his own humiliation. 

“Ask your brother,” Castiel says instead, petty and cruel. He heads towards the door of the bunker, hating the claustrophobic nature of the place but needing to escape this conversation. His hand on the doorknob, he pauses to look back at Sam. “I’m here to help with God because it’s my fight too. I can’t sit on the sidelines and watch because I have a responsibility. But after…However this ends, I’m leaving after.”

He goes into the bowels of the bunker, leaving Sam alone outside.

—

Dean is caught in the middle of a dream. 

Ever since they got the news that Chuck was back, he’s been dreaming more than usual. Normally his dreams are just strange, fever-pitch things. They’re enough to leave him gasping in a cold sweat, but not enough to linger over his day. These dreams though…these dreams wrap around him like a cold, forbidding blanket, and shadow every action that he makes until finally, he falls back asleep, only to dream again. 

Tonight, it’s more of the same. He’s racing through a forest that happens to look a hell of a lot like Purgatory. He’s hunting something. He doesn’t know what it is, but he knows that he wants to find it and destroy. He wants to dig his fingernails into this thing and shred it apart, until nothing’s left but the blood and gore on his hands. His blood thrills with the chase and all that he hears is just the sound of his feet racing through the undergrowth and the ragged sounds of his breath ripping through the air. 

Ahead of him, a rustle. Dean pours on the speed, his gun a promising weight in his hand. The tension of his finger as he squeezes the trigger, the recoil traveling up his arm, the satisfaction of hearing the bullet hit and watching the blood spray–Dean races ahead, hunting the creature that no longer bothers to be subtle. Now it’s running, straight in front of him, in a futile attempt to escape. 

There is no escape. Not here, not from him. 

Dean launches himself into the air, arms reaching out to grab the fabric of the thing’s coat. He brings it to the ground and they roll, scratching and clawing at each other, but there was only one way that this story was ever going to end. Dean springs to his feet, his quarry still on the ground, and if he were able, he’d throw his head back and howl his triumph to the night sky. 

He shoves his toe under the body and rolls them over. There is nothing but triumph as he looks into Castiel’s eyes. 

“Dean,” Cas tries, hands held up in surrender, “Dean, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to–”

Dean holds the gun up. He looks down at it, heavy in his hands. The Equalizer. Cas’ eyes flick to the gun, but then he keeps them on Dean’s face, open and earnest. Pleading. 

“Dean, this isn’t…This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, this isn’t you–” 

Cas’ voice tapers off to nothing as Dean places the gun against the skin of his forehead. His heart is pounding hard in his chest–excitement, horror–Whatever it is, Dean’s drunk on it, on the power to be found in the simple act of stroking his finger over the trigger. 

“Dean. Please.” Cas never takes his eyes off Dean’s face, and that trust, that faith, after everything that–

Dean squeezes the trigger, watches the blood and gore explode from Cas’ head, watches those bright blue eyes film over, watches the body slump–

—

He wakes, gasping, terrified, sick. He retches but nothing comes up, only the sick taste of his own horror. Just a dream, but the words sound empty both in his head and in the quiet air of his bedroom. Just a dream. It was just a dream. 

He didn’t kill Cas. He would never. 

But the dream was so _real_, with Cas kneeling, pleading…And the smooth feel of the gun jumping in his hands, the way that it was so easy to squeeze, the satisfaction of watching Cas’ body jerk, watching the quick spray of blood–

“Fucking christ,” Dean mutters. With quick, convulsive movements, he jerks his robe on and ties a sloppy knot. Obviously he’s not going to get any more sleep so he might as well…Do something. That has his feet and hands moving. 

Sam would suggest that he should exercise, but Sam is an asshole who eats granola and gets to have the person he loves in the same zipcode with him, so what the fuck does he know? 

Dean walks out of his room and closes the door quietly, just in case Eileen or Sam are sleeping lightly. He starts down the hallway, lost in the memories and the might-have beens, and he doesn’t see the other person in the hallway until he bounces off of them. 

He staggers back, an apology already on his lips, when he looks and–

“Cas?” he croaks, his heart thundering in his chest. 

He blinks to clear the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and then he looks– “Why are you–” There’s blood, too much of it, it’s on Cas’ shirt and his coat, and his face, and there’s, oh _god_ are those bullet holes in his shirt, and that’s too much blood, bullets in Cas and it’s _too much blood_–

“Dean, it’s fine. It’s not mine. I’m fine.” 

Dean realizes that he’d been speaking aloud, his hands clutching at the lapels of Cas’ coat in some desperate attempt to assure himself that this isn’t his dream, that Cas is still…That he’s…

“It’s not my blood. I’m fine. Look.” Cas takes his hand, in those sure, capable fingers, the ones that have put Dean back together more times than he can count, and guides it to his chest. Dean’s fingers catch on the ragged edge of Cas’ shirt, where the bullets went in before finding smooth, unblemished skin. Whole. Intact. 

Cas’ skin is warm to the touch and Dean drinks in the sensation before the full weight of reality hits and he realizes–This isn’t for him anymore. Touching Cas, getting to check him for injury–That isn’t for either of them. They both made sure of that. 

“You’re back,” Dean says, unnecessarily, but needing the moment to gather his defenses around him. He clutches his robe tight to his body like that’ll make a damn bit of difference, but it’s just one more layer between him and the rest of the world. 

Cas takes a step back. It’s hardly anything, but it feels like everything, in the deliberate distance that he puts between them. “Yes,” he says, his voice stiff in a way that it hasn’t been in years. “Considering the circumstances…I didn’t think that there was another option.” 

Dean jerks his head once, bitterly. “Right. The circumstances.” Because why else would Cas come back? Cas leaves because he wants to, because it’s time for him to move on, and comes back because of the circumstances. Because at the heart of it, Cas is still the duty-bound angel. “Well. We’ll try not keep you too long.” 

_What have you been doing to get yourself shot, are you ok, where have you been, why couldn’t you have at least texted Sam to let him know that you were fine, why couldn’t you text me and let me know you were fine, why couldn’t you stay, why couldn’t you understand that I still wanted you around, why couldn’t you just wait, just for a little bit until I was fine again–_

“I know that you’ve got stuff to get back to,” Dean says instead, like he’s possessed, like someone else is in his chest, saying these things that will make Cas flinch. 

He does. Cas still flinches, which means that Cas still _cares_, no matter how much he tries to pretend that he doesn’t. And if Cas still cares, that means that…Dean doesn’t know what that means. 

“I’ll try not to overstay my welcome.” Why did he ever teach Cas the nuances of sarcasm, the way that the English language can be manipulated to wound? 

Cas turns away from him, like he did that one night, like he does in some of Dean’s nightmares, the ones where he’s begging Cas to stay and Cas looks at him, coolly pitying, and says, _I think it’s time for me to move on_, and then he leaves, like all of this was never more than a pit stop for him along the way to bigger and better things. 

Something in Dean’s chest breaks. It shatters into a thousand pieces and then he’s lurching forward, hands reaching for Cas. He manages to grab a piece of his coat, but the tug of fabric is enough to stop Cas. “What Dean?” Dean didn’t know that angels could sound exhausted, but Cas does, Cas sounds like he has the weight of centuries and of Dean pushing him down to the ground. 

“I…I don’t know,” Dean says, and there’s something liberating about the acknowledgement that he’s been floundering for these past three weeks. “I don’t…I don’t like when you’re gone,” he says. There’s more, but it’s all too raw, too painful, too true to say. If he says that, if he apologizes and confesses, and all the rest of it, then Cas will _know_, and then…Then, when Cas leaves after that, Dean will know that it was always him, that Cas was always leaving him, and Dean doesn’t think that he’ll survive that. 

Cas says nothing; he doesn’t even bother to turn around. Dean inches closer and Cas could leave if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. Infinitesimally, Dean moves forward until his forehead is resting on Cas’ shoulder. Cas stiffens underneath him, but he doesn’t move to shake Dean off. Dean stays there and breathes in the scent of Cas’ coat, which smells like something damp and wild, and then the scent of Cas, which smells like something fierce and unforgiving. 

The moment is fragile, so achingly vulnerable, that it’s no surprise when Dean ruins it. “It’s good that you’re back,” he says, and he means it in the way that he can’t sleep well when he doesn’t know where Cas is, in the way that he thought that he was never going to see Cas again, in the way that his heart lifted to hear Cas’ voice, even in those bitten off, reluctant syllables, in the way that this feels like a second chance, and then he says, “We really need you”, and everything shatters. 

Cas pulls away and leaves Dean cold and bereft. Now, when he turns around, his face is that angelic mask that Dean hates so much, the one that Cas hides behind when he’s feeling too much, when he becomes too human for comfort. 

“That always seems to be the case,” Cas bites out, short and bitter, and how did this go so bad so quick? Where were the warnings? “I’m here to help, because this is my fight too Dean. I was here when it started and i don’t get to sit on the sidelines and watch. But after…” Castiel shakes his head. “If I stay, nothing changes.” 

He walks away, leaving Dean standing in the middle of the hallway. For the second time, Dean watches him go and doesn’t say anything. For the second time, Cas never pauses or invites Dean to change his mind. 

Dean stands in the hallway until Castiel disappears, until he confirms that Cas isn’t coming back. Then he slinks back to his room, despair and defeat dogging his steps like two faithful hounds. He closes the door and wishes that the noise of the latch clicking didn’t sound so final. 

He curls up on the bed and starts scrolling through his phone. He needs a hunt, something that will consume his mind, something that will take him away from the bunker, away from Cas, away from the ruins of his failure. 

“Huh,” he says, as he lands on something that looks promising. 

—

_Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.–Anais Nin_


	7. 15.06--nothing is ever enough

—

_Some people get what they want, but then they act like they don’t want what they’re given. I think it’s because sometimes the form it takes isn’t quite the form they wanted. That the person giving it and the manner in which it’s given isn’t what they wanted. Or maybe the timing is simply off. Or maybe, it’s just that when you don’t know what you want, nothing is ever enough. And I think that’s the real tragedy. That life gives us exactly what we’ve been wanting but we fail to embrace it.–Trevor Driggers_

—

**My Best Friend was Raptured In Front of Me**

_Sounds as good as anything_, Dean muses, and his eyes fall to his bag. Even though he and Sam have lived in the bunker now for about seven years, the habits of a lifetime are ingrained into him. He can be gone, from anywhere, within the span of thirty seconds. Yeah, some of the stuff that he’ll leave behind, he’ll miss, but that’s also the point. 

You shouldn’t miss anything when it’s gone. 

So it takes him about ten minutes to throw everything together in his duffel and another thirty seconds to write a quick note to Sam. Yeah, it’s on the dickish side of moves, leaving in the middle of the night when everyone’s asleep but he just…He can’t. Sam and Eileen, making those gross little soppy faces at each other, and Cas, Cas with his bloody shirt and bullet holes, Cas with one foot out the door like always, Cas with his lies and his omissions, and his stupid fucking face–

Dean stutters to a stop when he reaches the war room, only to find Cas at the table, a pile of books spread out in front of him. 

Right. Angel. Doesn’t sleep. 

Once Dean’s brain is over the shock of seeing Cas, again, it has another to deal with: the coat is abandoned on the table, a sad little crumpled up thing. And instead of his suit, Cas is sporting a faded green henley and a pair of jeans that’s just a little too big for him. 

It’s because Cas is wearing his clothes, Dean realizes, with the same kind of detached horror that enables people to witness car crashes and train wrecks and still function. Cas is wearing his clothes and his shirt is just a shade too big on Cas, enough that the collar of the henley gaps and he can see the shallow dip of Cas’ clavicle. 

Dean remembers clearly how Cas came to be in possession of his clothes: he gave them to him. _You need something else_, he’d said, when they were returning home after a hunt, him and Sam and Jack and Cas. _You can’t be stuck in that suit all the time. Not when you’re home_. 

And Cas had glowed in that subtle way that he did whenever he was really pleased by something and Dean had shoved the clothes into Cas’ hands and turned around before Cas could see the expression on his face, before Cas could _know_, because if Cas _knew_, then…

Dean doesn’t even know anymore, what he was so afraid of. It seems so irrelevant, especially when all of his worst fears have already come true. 

Jack evil, Mom dead, Jack dead, God back, Cas gone–It’s all happened, so what the fuck was he even trying to protect himself from? 

Cas jerks in surprise, but the movement is barely noticeable. It’s only because Dean is looking for it that he catches it at all. Long seconds pass as they stare at each other, with the barrier of the table between them. Then Cas’ eyes flick down to the bag in his hands. 

“You’re leaving.” Cas phrases it as a statement and Dean can’t help but bristle at the implication of judgement in his voice. 

“Caught a case. Figured that Sam and Eileen were going to be too busy making kissy-faces at each other, so.” Dean hefts the bag onto his shoulder but makes no effort to leave. He’s too caught by the sight of Cas’ wrists and forearms, of Cas’ toes stark against the floor of the bunker. “What’s with the wardrobe change?” 

For a moment, he doesn’t think that Cas is going to answer him. The thought crosses Cas’ mind; Dean watches it occur and then watches as Cas dismisses it. 

“I told you that my powers were failing.” Cas’ clenches his hands together, seemingly peaceful, but Dean can see the strain in his knuckles. “On my hunt yesterday…” Cas’ eyes dart down to his chest. The memory of the bullet holes in Cas’ shirt sinks its teeth into Dean. 

“You had to heal yourself.” 

Cas nods shortly. “And a civilian. By the end of that…” He presses his clasped knuckles to his chin. “I’m drained. I don’t currently have enough power to heal a papercut, let alone fix my clothing.” Cas’ eyes close. 

“Are you gonna get your mojo back?” 

Dean’s question comes from a place of concern, but, as Cas’ eyes slice towards him, he realizes that’s not how Cas interpreted his question. “I’ll be ready,” Cas says, aggressive. Defensive. 

And once again, they stand on opposite sides of a table. The anger has faded to a dull roar in the background, a self-righteous throb of _You can’t give us radio silence, not when the world’s going to shit_, and _Couldn’t you just trust me once, after all these years, couldn’t you at least give me a chance to do something right_, and _You were sitting on top of this bomb and you didn’t think to tell us that we might all be in danger?_ More prevalent in Dean’s mind are the sadness and the futility, the sense of _where did we go wrong?_ Dean’s charted it in his head and he can never pinpoint the one moment where it all fell apart, the second that he can point to and say _Here, here is where my life went off the rails_. 

Cas looks at him and then his bag. “You were leaving,” he says, not unkindly, but it still feels like a slap in the face. Dean can remember all the times that he tried to sneak away, only to be stopped by Cas. Cas saying repeatedly, _Let me go with you. I could go with you_. Why did he ever take that for granted? Why did he ever let that slip through his fingers? 

And Dean doesn’t have any idea how to get it back, because instead of saying, _You could come with me_, he says, “Yeah. I guess.” He starts towards the stairs and pauses with his foot on the first step. He looks back at Cas, vulnerable without the cloak of his suit and coat to protect him from the harsh world. “Are you going to be here when I get back?” 

Cas meets his eyes, and Dean used to think that Cas was an open book, read every single expression on his face, maybe even the ones that Cas didn’t want him to read. Turns out that was a faulty impression, because now he’s looking at Cas and he can’t see a goddamn thing. 

“I guess that depends on when you get back,” Cas says, voice as stiff as his posture. 

Dean leaves. 

—

Sam talks about finding God as if it is a task that can be accomplished, but Castiel knows better. Finding God, when God does not want to be found, is impossible, like trying to catch sunlight with your bare hands. Like trying to find the end of a rainbow. Like talking to Dean Winchester. 

Impossible.

Still, he doesn’t want to kill the small spark of optimism in Sam’s eyes, so Castiel tells Sam what he knows. He speaks of the angels who were known to talk to God–Gabriel, Raphael, Michael, Lucifer. Joshua. Metatron. 

“They’re all dead now,” Sam says, fist clenching in frustration. He laughs once, bitterly. “I never thought that I’d miss any of them, but what I wouldn’t give to see Metatron’s smarmy little face.” 

“He was a writer too,” Castiel muses. “No doubt he could have given us some sort of insight.” 

Sam grunts. It’s a sound that ends conversations, which is fine with Castiel. The harsh words spoken between himself and Sam the previous night still hang heavy over both their heads, and Castiel can’t tell if the atmosphere is made better or worse by Dean’s absence. 

“I called him,” Sam says, an hour later, seemingly at random. “Dean.” 

Castiel stares at Sam. In the old days that look alone would have been enough to deter him, but either Sam Winchester has grown bold in his old age, or Castiel has grown weak in his. Sam continues. 

“I asked him what you told me to. About why you left.” 

This is a conversation that is doomed to go nowhere. Castiel doesn’t want to be there when it ends. Absurdly, he wishes for Eileen. Sam tends to have a sort of tunnel vision around her, and he could desperately use someone else to deflect. However, as usual, his luck is terrible: Eileen is at the shooting range, practicing with the numerous weapons at her disposal. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel says, in a last-ditch effort to stall the conversation. 

Sam looks at him shrewdly through his fringe. “Funny,” he says, after a pause. “That’s what Dean said.” 

—

It’s a case that somehow lands him at a roadhouse, which, awesome. 

It’s a case that somehow has him running into Lee, which, awesome-r. 

Dean and Lee were tight back in the good old days, the days when John had cut him loose and Dean was just some punk kid with a gun stuffed into his waistband, and a carton of salt and a lighter shoved into his pocket. He started more fights than he won, won more pool than he lost, and passed out more nights than he fell asleep. It’s a hell of a way to spend a weekend, but not a life, and that’s about where Leo found him, when Dean was piss drunk, stumbling through some alley at ass o’clock in the morning. 

Lee had been in the game for longer than Dean but was a kinder teacher than John. Lee had been willing to sit through Dean’s tantrums and put up with Dean’s punk-ass attitude and for…What kind of reward, he got out of it, Dean was never really sure, but he and Lee stuck together for a few months, maybe a year, before Dad called and Dean had gone running back. When Dad decided that Dean was slowing him down and kicked him to the curb again, Dean had tried to hook back up with Lee, but no dice. Honestly, Dean figured that he’d either gotten out of the game or died. When someone with their kind of lifestyle disappears, that’s usually the only explanation. 

But nope, Lee’s here, and alive, and not possessed or anything else. When Dean asks him why the hell he hasn’t be able to get in touch with him for like twenty damn years, Lee just shrugs and chugs a beer. “Cell phones man,” he says, his southern drawl coming out strong now after he’s had a few. “Fuck ‘em. You think that I’m going to keep anything that has a tracker and internet on it? You think I’m that stupid?” 

He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket. “Here. You need to get in touch with me, you call this number. I won’t answer. A guy named Tom will answer. You tell him that you want to talk to Ernest and he’ll get in touch with me and I’ll get back with you…five days to two weeks. Give or take.” 

“God you’re weird as fuck,” Dean says, but he slips the paper into his wallet anyway. 

“Anyway, what the hell are you doing here? Thought you and Sam were off saving the world or whatever it is you do these days.” At Dean’s raised brows, Lee grins. “Word gets around man. You can’t go fighting the devil or whatever it is you do without some people talking.” 

“Yeah, well the devil’s dead,” Dean mutters, forgetting for a moment that most people don’t lead his kind of life. Leo’s eyebrows go high into his hairline and he nods, half-impressed. 

“Well, I’d say that deserves a beer!” he says, and hails the nearest waitress. 

—

Castiel finds that he likes spending time with Eileen. He never knew her before, so there are no expectations for him to uphold and no tangled history to try and work through. There’s just her and the tasks spread out in front of them. 

He finds her at the shooting range, sending bullets at what seems like a superhuman speed through a number of targets. He waits until she empties a clip before he taps her on the shoulder. 

She turns around, her eyes curious. “I was thinking that I might join you,” Castiel says aloud, while his fingers, rusty from long, long, long years of disuse, struggle making the signs. Eileen’s eyes flick between his face and his hands. Surprise lights in her eyes. 

_You know ASL?_

Castiel shrugs. _I know most languages_, he signs, his motions gaining confidence. _It’s one of the few perks of being an angel_. 

Eileen shrugs and passes him a gun. Castiel’s fingers struggle with the unfamiliar hardware but Eileen guides him through with soft touches. Within minutes he’s loading the gun smoothly. 

Firing a gun is nothing out of the ordinary, but his hands don’t know the motions; his body doesn’t know the correct positioning. With several adjustments, Eileen guides him into firing smoothly into the target. His aim might not be the surgically precise aim of Sam and Dean or Eileen, but it’s passable. 

Afterward, Eileen teaches him how to take apart the gun to its basest parts and put it back together. Castiel follows her motions until they become second-nature. Eileen watches him, correcting when necessary. 

After they’re done, she sits across the table from him, the pieces of the guns scattered between them. _Why do you need to know this?_ she asks, face twisted in confusion. _I thought that you could just_…She waves her arms in a complicated motion that Castiel assumes means something close to smiting. 

He pauses for a moment. The truth of the matter is a little too close to home, a little too painful to even broach, but Eileen has been beyond kind. She deserves the truth. 

_I don’t know for how much longer I’ll have these powers. Ever since…God, he signs the word with reluctance, I’ve been…I think my powers are failing. And if I can’t rely on them anymore, I need to learn other methods of fighting_.

The admission doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Perhaps it’s because it’s to Eileen. Perhaps he’s just had more time to come to terms with the idea. Either way, when he acknowledges the loss of his powers, the words no longer fill him with either the ragged pain or the slow-creeping horror that they once did. 

Eileen nods. _That’s smart_, she says, then pauses for a moment, before signing, slower, _I’m sorry. That must be difficult for you_. Another pause before she asks, _Are you in any pain_? 

_No_, Castiel signs quickly back. _It’s not painful. Just…strange. Knowing that I can’t rely on something that…It is a part of me. And it’s disappearing._

Eileen’s face is compassionate and understanding. Something in Castiel relaxes, which is, of course, when she strikes. 

_Sam thinks that you and Dean had a fight_, she signs, rapid-fire, like she thinks Castiel will turn away before she’s done. 

He doesn’t turn away. He can’t do that, not after this afternoon. But he does send her a scathing glare. Eileen meets it unflinching, and Castiel has to admit a begrudging respect. 

_We didn’t have a fight_, he signs, half-heartedly. _There was nothing to fight about_.

_Sam’s angry with Dean. He thinks that whatever happened, it’s Dean’s fault_. 

_Did he tell you this?_ Castiel signs. He can’t believe that Sam would spill out his and Dean’s dirty secrets, but perhaps times have changed. 

Eileen looks only the smallest bit abashed. _No, but I read his lips this morning during his phone call. He was too frustrated to notice, once he saw that Dean left_. 

_Dean and I didn’t have a fight_. Castiel signs with forceful motions, hoping to end this conversation once and for all. _It was just_…Bitterness still clogs at his throat and chest, when he thinks about what happened–Jack, Mary, Chuck, Rowena…Dean’s cutting remarks, Dean’s apathy, Dean’s outright cruelty, Dean volunteering him to go into Hell with the _abomination_ wearing his son’s body–_Angels and humans aren’t meant to mix_, he finally signs, slowly. Resigned. _There’s too much that’s different between us. It can be ignored for a moment, but in the end…They were never meant to mix_.

He can’t stand the quiet compassion in Eileen’s eyes, so he turns away. A gentle hand on his chin pulls his gaze back to hers. This time when she speaks, it’s with her voice as well as hands, to ensure that her point comes across. “If they were never meant to mix, then isn’t that a reason why they should? If that was never in the original plan, then isn’t that as good a reason as any to try it?”

“You’re an intelligent woman,” Castiel finally says, a smile valiantly trying to land on his lips. “I can see the reason for Sam’s admiration.” 

Eileen grins at him then, warm and welcoming and a little silly in the way that only humans are. “Of course,” she says, before reaching over and resting her hand on his for a moment. “I’m glad you’re here. And I know that Sam is too.” 

She walks away and leaves Castiel alone in the basement. 

—

Lee tells him that he needs to get his mojo back. 

Right. That’s a thing that’s going to happen. 

Still, it’s Lee and Dean doesn’t want to let him down, so he downs the whiskey and beers. He plays pool and manages to hustle some poor asshole out of $250. For one thrilling moment, he thinks that the dude is going to fight him, but then he looks at Dean and decides that it’s not worth the effort. Dean almost goads him into a fight, but then Leo is there with more drinks and Dean forgets about it. 

Halfway through the night, he feels the eyes on him. He’d have to be blind and dead not to. The eyes belong to a woman who might have been around the block a few times but came out the other side not giving half a fuck because she still looks damn good and knows it. Dean can appreciate that, Dean does appreciate that. And judging from the look in her eyes, she appreciates Dean, and that’s…That’s nice. It’s been a while since he’s been elevator-eyed, been a while since he’s felt that little spark of heat in the pit of his belly. 

Mojo. Right. 

After a few moments, Dean obeys the come-hither eyes he’s getting and saunters his way over to her. She grins at him over the rim of her margarita and swirls the thin black straw with her tongue. “Well, hey there sweetheart,” Dean tries, slinging himself into the empty chair right beside her. Easy, loose, half-grin on his face, like he could be coaxed into laughing if she knew the right joke to say (the secret is that they’re all the right joke; she just needs to say one). 

“Hi,” she says in return. Dean doesn’t know how women make their eyes sparkle, but she’s been taking classes and they’ve paid off. There are bonafide diamonds in her eyes and all 24 karats are winking at Dean. “Couldn’t help but notice that you’re talking to a lot of people around here.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, because this night had originally begun as background for a case. What was his case? What was the whole reason he was here? Doesn’t matter. Diamond-eyes is in front of him, slowly swirling her straw around her glass. “Well, I was looking for someone.” 

“Looks like you found her,” she says, voice low and sultry and hitting all the right spots. She leans forward at a calculated angle to ensure that her cleavage is revealed to a level that’s enticing, but not trashy, and rests her fingers lightly on his bicep. 

And Dean feels…

Nothing. 

A big ball of nothing. 

Sure, there’s the little spark of interest in his gut, the vague stirring of a dick that’s spied a pair of boobs that could be his if he plays his cards right, but the urge is just…Gone. He doesn’t want to suggest that she finish her drink and maybe they can head out of here, he doesn’t want to sidle closer to her, wrap his arm around her shoulders, see how far she’ll let him take it right here in public. He doesn’t want to take her into a dark corner and learn the taste of her mouth. 

He’s not 22 anymore and that life just isn’t…

With a pang, he thinks of Cas, sitting at the table in his clothes, a pile of books spread out in front of him. He thinks of Cas’ bare feet, his toes curling on the smooth floor of the bunker. He thinks of Cas’ face before he left, the feel of Cas’ chest, warm and smooth, underneath his fingers. His terror when he thought that Cas was hurt. He thinks about all the words between them, still unsaid, he thinks about all the things that he wishes he’d said, all the things he still wants to say. He thinks about the pain he felt when he realized that he doesn’t get to ask where Cas is anymore, that he doesn’t get to indulge in the little casual touches–a brush of his fingers over the back of Cas’ neck, a tap of his shoulder, a companionable bump of the hips. 

He remembers how Cas’ face splits when he smiles, into something gummy and soft. He remembers the sound of Cas’ laugh, the indulgent roll of his eyes when Dean forces him down on the couch and makes him watch something. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, before he pulls back just slightly. Diamond-eye’s hand falls away. “I, uh…I don’t think so.” Her lips part in confusion as Dean takes another step back. “I think that…You know, I’ve got somewhere else to be. I’m…I’m sorry,” he apologizes, before he hurries back to the bar. 

Predictably, Lee is waiting for him and angry. “The hell man? I’ve never seen a surer thing and you just what? Want the thrill of the chase?” Lee pushes at Dean’s shoulder, a little playfully, but also with a thin thread of anger behind the gesture. “Get back there, apologize your ass off, and then go do what you do!” 

“Nah, I’m just not feeling it.” Dean’s feeling like he needs to be about 300 miles away from here, feeling like he needs to start salvaging the shattered remnants of his life. 

“Fuck that, you’re not feeling it?” Lee’s voice is incredulous. “Who the hell are you man?” 

He’s putting a little too much emphasis and interest into the state of Dean’s pipes, and Dean’s about ready to tell him so, when he catches a good glimpse of Lee’s face. 

There’s something…It’s wrong. It’s Lee, Dean’s damn sure of that, but there’s a wild sort of glaze to his eyes that Dean’s never seen before. There’s a fever intensity to his eyes and words, and it’s only now that Dean realizes how weird that is. Lee is an intense guy, but not like this. Lee is an intense guy like how he took a bullet to the shoulder and thigh and still managed to take out the shifter. Not in the way that he really cares about where Dean’s dick is going. 

“You’re not–” Dean starts, before taking a slow step backwards. 

“Dean, this ain’t you, man,” Lee tries, but now that he’s seen it once, Dean can spot the cracks. 

“The fuck you mean? You haven’t seen me in twenty years, how the fuck do you know who I am anymore? But this–” Dean gestures to Lee. “You think I can’t recognize shitty writing when I see it?”

_Chuck’s pervy obsession with you_, Lilith had said, and at the time, Dean hadn’t recognized that for the odd sort of warning that it was. Now that he’s experienced the manipulation once before, he can spot the edges of it. 

“I don’t know why Chuck wants me to screw around but…That ain’t me anymore,” Dean says, backing away again for Lee. “I don’t know if you’re like…the real Lee, just with his strings being pulled, or if you’re not even real, but either way, you go back to Chuck and you tell him that I’m done. He can find someone else’s ass to stick his hand up. I’m done.” 

Lee tugs at Dean’s elbow. “You don’t want to do this,” he warns, all trace of accent gone from his voice, and how did Dean ever mistake this guy for his friend? 

Dean pulls away and tries to shake off the lingering feeling of Lee’s fingers pressing into his skin. “Yeah,” Dean says, thinking of Cas’ voice when it said, _You know what’s real? We are_. “Yeah, I really do.” 

Lee hauls off and punches him in the face. 

—

He hauls ass all the way back to Kansas, ignoring the thin trickle of blood running down his cheek. One of his eyes is puffy, but that’s the worst of it. God, he hopes Cas is still at the bunker when he gets there. Please, _please_, let Cas still be there. 

—

His knees go weak with relief when he sees Cas’ truck still parked outside the bunker. Dean slides into the garage and then into the bunker. His heart pounds as he makes his way into the war room and then into the library. There’s a lamp on in the bowels of the room. 

He finds Cas where he thought he would find him–Cas has a favorite chair in the library that he’ll tuck himself into when he doesn’t think that anyone will find him. He’s in there now, dressed in one of Dean’s old sweatshirts and another pair of hand-me-down jeans worn so thin that Cas’ knee pokes through a hole. 

Cas is…Is Cas _asleep_? He certainly looks the part, legs curled up underneath his body, torso hidden underneath one of their many blankets, book open on his lap while a limp hand holds its place. Cas’ head is tucked into his shoulder, his mouth slack and open. 

“Cas.” Dean squats beside the chair, ignoring the creak of his joints. He reaches out to jostle Cas’ shoulder. “Cas, wake up.” 

Castiel startles himself awake; his eyes dart around the room as he looks for a threat. Finding none, he focuses still hazy eyes on Dean. For a moment, his face softens, the fine lines around his eyes deepening as the corners of his mouth lift, and Dean can feel himself smiling in return–

And then Castiel fully awakens, and reality clamps its ugly jaws around the both of them. “You’re back,” Cas says, drawing the blanket tighter around himself like it’s going to help protect him. 

“Yeah,” Dean answers. His knees are screaming at him, but he doesn’t pull away. “Case was a bust.”

“It was much the same here.” Cas’ voice is carefully inflectionless and Dean misses the days when he could hear the warmth inherent in his every sentence. “It turns out that it’s difficult to find God when he doesn’t want to be found.” 

“Yeah, well, I think that I might have a line on that.” 

Cas tries to hide it, but Dean sees the faint spark of interest in his eyes. He hastens to explain. “Turns out that Chuck is a little more interested in my personal life than I thought. He was damn interested in making sure that I screwed some bar chick. Put one of my old friends in the bar just to ensure that it happened.” 

Due to the chair, Cas can’t physically pull away from him, but he does his best attempt. “Well, my apologies. It must be so difficult to garner that kind of attention.” 

Anger sparks in Dean’s gut, but he tamps it down. In the past few weeks, anger has done nothing for him. “Well, when you’re not really interested in it, then yes.” Cas has his chin lifted away from Dean, but at those words, Dean catches the slow slide of Cas’ eyes towards his face. 

“For weeks, I’ve been beating myself up and chasing my own tail because I can’t figure it out–What’s real in our lives and what’s Chuck. What decisions I made because I wanted to make them and what decisions I made because Chuck thought that it would make a better story. I haven’t…Until tonight, I had no clue. But now…” Dean waits long enough that Cas’ face turns back to him, jaw clenched tight with anger. “Cas, I made the choice to walk out of that bar. I did that.” 

“Congratulations,” Cas says, voice tight. His hand curls into a fist overtop the blanket. “You’ve discovered what Sam and I have both been trying to tell you for weeks.” 

“Will you stop for a second?” Dean snaps, before he forces the corrosive boil of his anger down. “I didn’t know Cas, that was the problem. I couldn’t trust…I couldn’t trust anything. Nothing was real.” 

“Plenty of things were real,” Cas says quietly. “You just didn’t want to see them.” 

“No,” Dean says. The easy agreement snaps Cas’ attention to him. “I…God Cas, I don’t…It was all so fucked up, and I never had a chance to…to just breathe, all right? Mom wasn’t there and it was Jack’s fault and…” Dean bows his head, close enough to the chair and Cas that he can feel them. “It wasn’t your fault. I know that it wasn’t your fault.”

Angels don’t really need to breathe, but Dean can hear the shaky sound of Cas’ breaths above him, rasping in and out in shaky little waves. “You were never dead to me,” Dean says. If he were a better man, less of a coward, then he would be able to look Cas in the eyes, but he’s not a good man, he’s just him, and it’s taking all of his power to just force the words out. “I…God Cas, I don’t know. I was angry and the whole thing was so fucked up and I just…I needed someone, something to blame, and I…”

“It wasn’t fair,” Cas interrupts. His voice is surprisingly steady. “None of it was fair.” He doesn’t sound forgiving, but neither does he sound like he’s getting ready to push Dean away. Dean will take that as a victory. 

“I don’t want you to go.” The confession is little more than a broken whisper, croaked out on the last vestiges of Dean’s courage. “I don’t…Please, don’t go.” 

He looks up at Cas to see the strange mix of anger and surprise in Cas’ face. He looks for some hint of warmth, but if it’s there, Cas is hiding it well. “I told you that I would stay until the problem was solved,” Cas finally says, slowly, like he’s working through a problem. 

“I don’t…I don’t want you to go,” Dean says, hoping beyond hope that Cas will understand the implications behind his words. “Even after. I don’t…Nothing’s better if you go.” 

Something shifts in Cas’ face. It’s not forgiveness, not even close, but it’s a small crack in the ice. For the first time since he’s been back, Dean gets a hint of that old warmth. 

“You’re hurt,” Cas says, finally. Quietly, like if he says the words too loudly, Dean will disappear. He reaches out and Dean hardly dares to breathe, certainly doesn’t dare blink as Cas presses his fingers to the torn skin of his temple. 

He feels the familiar warmth of Cas’ grace start to spread through his skin, but it’s muted and flickering. Cas’ fingers tremble against his skin and even though he tries to hide it, Dean can see the strain on Cas’ face. Cas’ breaths come swift and shallow through clenched teeth as he forces the healing complete. 

When it’s done, Dean savors the feeling of healed skin and a pain-free head, but only for a moment. After that moment, Cas slumps forward, his face pale and ashen. Dean catches him by the shoulder and pushes him back into the chair. 

Even though it’s not technically for him anymore, Dean passes his hand over Cas’ clammy forehead. He gives into temptation (not for him, not for him, but god, wouldn’t it be _nice_), and pushes his fingers through Cas’ hair. “Jesus,” he murmurs, holding Cas’ face in his hands. Cas’ eyelids flicker for a moment before he opens them and blearily focuses on Dean’s face. “Why the fuck did you do that?” 

“You were hurt,” Cas says, like that answers everything. Maybe it does. 

“You weren’t kidding about that grace, huh?” Dean says. He can’t stop touching Cas–he holds his shoulders, strokes his thumb over the thin cord of muscle sticking out of Cas’ neck. 

“It’s replenishing, but slowly,” Cas answers. “I don’t…I don’t know how many more times it will do so, before it’s gone altogether. And when that happens…” 

“We’ll figure it out,” Dean says, his heart breaking open so sweet and painful, and awful. “Together.” 

There’s no promise in Cas’ eyes, no absolution, but he lets Dean tuck the blanket around him, and when Dean forces himself onto the arm of the chair so that he can put his around Cas’ shoulders, Cas doesn’t push him away. 

Dean will take it. 

—

_So I told him, “I know that we’re not meant for each other, that we drive each other crazy, and that we are so different. But that’s us. That’s what we have; a wild nonsense. We are not good together, but together we are bad for each other. I love us together this way, just like this. Because even if it’s no good, it’s what we have. It’s us.–C. JoyBell C._


	8. 15.07--where no words abide

\---  
_Sometimes, the things that are felt the most are expressed between two souls over the distance and over time…where no words abide. And others may speak freely, live with one another freely, express themselves freely–just like everyone else, but then there is you…you have no words for proof of reassurance, no tokens of professed love, but you have something. Something worth keeping.–C. Joybell C._

—

Dean burns the bar. 

Dumps tequila and whiskey and gin and rum and whatever other rotgut he finds behind the counter over the floors, the pool tables, the bar itself, the walls–He splashes alcohol over Lee, carefully not looking at his face, at–

Dean swallows down his disgust, his rage, his grief. He pushes it down into the seething mass of his stomach and walks towards the exit. At the door, he turns around. If he turns his head just the right way, he can see the dark lump of Lee huddled against one of the pillars. Dean turns his head the other way before he flicks his lighter. 

He tosses it into the room and leaves as the wave of heat slaps him across the face. He walks away to the sound of flames licking against the walls. 

He puts the burning building in his rearview and he never looks back. 

On his way out of town, he glances at his cellphone. When he sees that Cas called, his heart does a sick little lurch and jump. He fumbles several times over the screen before his thumb swipes at the message. 

When he hears what’s in the message, his foot presses down on the gas pedal until the tires are squealing against the asphalt. 

—

He drives straight through the evening and into the night until his tires crunch over the gravel outside the bunker. His mind is churning with the sound of Cas’ voice on his phone, his words _Sam is hurt_ and then the more desperate, angrier, _Where ARE you_. The sound of three missed calls spurs him onward, because Cas can never just answer his damn phone, because apparently it’s fine when Dean calls Cas and Cas doesn’t answer, but heaven forbid Cas call Dean and not get an immediate answer. 

It’s a small, mean thought, brought on by fear and helplessness, and the knowledge that there’s still a little smear of Lee’s blood ground into the skin of his thumb. Dean grits his teeth and pushes on and when he gets to the bunker, his heart does a little skip-thump when he recognizes Castiel’s truck parked outside. 

He drives faster than the recommended into the garage and parks the Impala crooked. Grabbing his duffel, he hurries through the hallway into the war room. The sight of movement is enough to make him jog the last few steps until he bursts into the room to find–

Cas looks up at him, eyes wide and startled. Dean thought that his heart did a weird little lurch when he saw Cas’ name in his phone and truck in the driveway, but it’s nothing compared to what’s happening now, his heart is dancing a damn tango against his lungs and ribs and he’s powerless to stop it, he’s caught in the riptide of Cas, back in the bunker, Cas, back where he _belongs_–

“Dean,” Cas says. At the sound of Cas’ voice smoothing over the letters of his name, something in Dean’s chest shatters. Cas’ voice is unfathomable, soft and bitter and unreadable. 

For weeks, Dean’s practiced what he would say to Cas. In the quiet moments between cases, in the solitude of his room or the shower, in the ceaseless churn of his tires against pavement, he’s confronted Cas thousands of times. Sometimes he’s angry, sometimes he’s desperate. Most of the time he begs Cas to stay. Sometimes, in his fantasies, Cas even says yes. 

But for all those scenarios, Dean forgets how words work when confronted with the reality of Cas in front of him, the glory of seeing the impossible become possible. He gropes for something, anything to say, and can only come up with, “Sam. Is he, uh…” 

“He’s fine,” Cas says, too quickly, his eyes darting around the room at anywhere except Dean. 

A chasm opens up in Dean’s chest, wide as ocean, wide as the table that separates him and Cas, wide as the years that separate them, wide as the span of his fingers that want to reach out and clutch the tails of Cas’ coat. 

A sigh of relief blows out of Dean, the ever-present clamoring of _Take care of Sammy, Take care of Sammy_ appeased. Something complicated passes over Cas’ face when Dean says, “Good, that’s good,” except Dean doesn’t see what it is since Cas is already turning away from him. 

“Yeah,” Cas says, already moving, always moving away. Ten years and Cas has never stopped moving away, has never stopped walking out of all the doors in Dean’s life. By now, Dean is so familiar with the sight of Cas disappearing out of doorways, that he sees it in his sleep. 

“Good,” Dean breathes, past the pained twist in his chest. “Good.” 

—

Dean is back. Castiel thought that he was prepared. 

He was not. 

He thought that he had managed to exorcise Dean Winchester out of him, the same way that humans used to burn out fevers, the same way that addicts sweat through withdrawals, but all it took was one look, one short conversation and Castiel realizes that Dean Winchester is a fever he can’t sweat out, the worst kind of drug. He’ll never be able to scour Dean Winchester out of him, never be able to clean out all the fingerprints that Dean has left on him. 

He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, the swift brush of his gaze, but Castiel keeps his eyes firmly fixed on Sam, on the ground, on the wall–on anything except for Dean. Dean is the moon and Castiel is the tide, pulled by his relentless whim, but he can’t…He can’t. 

It’s a flimsy plan, but it’s still a plan, and Castiel allows himself to imagine what it would be like, for just a moment–To be cut free, set adrift. Untethered from all his connections. There’s a wild sort of joy in the thought as well as a desperate sort of despair. 

Castiel doesn’t want to be alone, but he doesn’t see a way in which he gets to reclaim what he’s lost. That door was slammed shut, the key thrown away, the way back lost. That idyllic future, whatever it might have been, was erased, sure as footprints on the beach. 

He walks out of the infirmary, head like a tornado. He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Eileen running after him until her fingers close around his elbow. “Are you ok?” she asks. 

Not for the first time, Castiel wonders at the innate kindness of some humans, the selfless urge that sends them running after people they only met mere hours before. 

“I’m fine,” Castiel answers, wondering if he’s ever been fine, if he’ll ever be fine. Hard-pressed, he can’t come up with a definitive version of what the word fine truly means. “I just need–” He waves his hand in a gesture meant to encompass the world. 

“Ok.” Eileen’s face is a roadmap of doubt, but she releases him. Castiel walks away from her, into the solitude of his room. 

He sinks onto the bed, hands gripping his knees. If he could burn Dean Winchester out of him then he would, but he’s addicted, he’s hopeless. He has been ever since the first time his grace spanned across the realms to brush against Dean Winchester’s soul. 

—

Unable to sleep, Dean wanders through the bunker. He’d tried, he really had, but every time his eyes drifted shut, all he could see was Lee’s face, twisted in pain as Dean shoved the broken pool cue into his stomach. Or worse, Lee’s face back when he was still a fresh-faced youth with sparkling eyes and a grin that beckoned the devil himself to dance. 

Dean had almost loved him once. 

He’d never been able to take that final step, never been able to cross the space between _possibility_ and _probability_. Under John Winchester’s eyes, the possibility had withered, until all that was left was the empty space of _might have been_ and the vague regret of the road not taken. 

There had been the nights, fueled by too much beer, too many hormones, and too much adrenaline, where he and Lee had mapped out the contours of each other’s mouths, where Dean had discovered that he loved the feel of fingers twisting in his hair, nights that had left him with stubble burn on his chin and his lips swollen and raw. 

And it had never turned into more, because…Because…

Dean moves down the hallway without conscious thought, only the memory of Lee’s mouth on his and Lee’s empty, staring eyes, to fuel him. How many things has he lost because he was willing to just let slip by? What opportunities have slipped through his fingers? 

What might he have become if he hadn’t had Sam and Cas all these years? Lee is the road not taken, the divergent path in the woods–_We Are_, Cas said, when Dean asked what was real. _Why do you care so much?_ Lee asked, and somehow, those two things are related in his mind. 

Dean cares. He cares so goddamn much that sometimes he thinks that he might rip apart from the agony of it. He cares about Sam, about Eileen, about the weird little extended family he’s managed to build. He cares about the people that he’s lost, the family that he’s watched burn into nothing. He cares about the civilians that they save and the ones that he doesn’t. He cares about the bad calls that he’s made, he cares about the roads that he might have walked down. 

He cares about Cas. 

It’s more than that of course; it always is when it comes to Cas. For the first time in weeks, Dean acknowledges that, allows himself to really _feel_ it, as he stands outside Cas’ door and raps his knuckles against the door. 

There’s a pause after Dean drops his hand down to his side. Years of hunting allow him to hear the soft sounds of a body shuffling inside, the moment when a body makes a decision. The doorknob creaks as Cas opens the door. 

And once again, Dean forgets how to speak, forgets how to form words, because now he’s looking at a Cas dressed in sweatpants that are slung a little too low on his hips and a t-shirt that stretches just a little too tight across his chest. His socked feet shuffle as his eyes look beyond Dean. 

“What?” Cas asks flatly. His jaw is set, immovable and eternal, but Dean won’t let that stop him. He can’t. _Why do you care?_ Lee asked, and Dean couldn’t pretend any more that he didn’t care, that he didn’t feel everything deep and personal and godawful painful. 

“Can I…Can I talk to you?” 

For a wild moment, Dean thinks that Cas is going to slam the door in his face. He sees the jump in Cas’ jaw when he considers it, the flex of his fingers on the door. Then, without a word, Cas steps backward, allowing Dean into his room. 

Dean’s eyes dart around the space, taking in the little details, the tiny stamps of Cas’ personality on the blank space. One shelf has dozens of rocks on it, worn smooth by time and Cas’ thumb scraping over the surface. Cas’ coat is slung over a chair, along with his suit jacket. His shoes are stacked haphazardly near the door. 

“So what is this, casual Friday?” Dean asks, when the silence between them stretches into crushing. 

Cas doesn’t answer as he retreats to the opposite side of the bed. Always something between them, every single time–the Apocalypse, Purgatory, Leviathans, angels, Lucifer, Jack, Michael–always something there, as desperate as the end of the world, as simple as a bed. 

“What did you want?” Cas finally asked. Now that he’s looking for it, Dean hears the thin tinge of exhaustion in Cas’ voice, sees the shadows underneath his eyes. There’s weariness in the way that his fingers pick at the blanket, frailty in the tiny holes around the collar of his shirt. 

“I…” It would be so easy to give up. To retreat, to let whatever the fuck this is between him and Cas wither into nothing. To watch another road disappear in his rearview, to close the door on yet another opportunity. All he has to do is leave. All he has to do is keep quiet. 

_Why do you care so much?_

“It’s not your fault,” Dean blurts. 

His eyes are on Cas’ face, so he catches every second of his reaction–the startle, the widening of his eyes, the convulsive twist of his fingers in the blankets. He sees the intensity of Cas’ stare as it focuses on the bedspread, watches the tension put his spine into a ramrod position. 

“You…you’ve been there for Sam and me when no one else was, and if you’ve messed up…Well, it’s no more than either of us have done. You’ve always tried Cas. Every single time, you’ve always been trying to help us, to do the right thing.” Forty years well up in Dean’s chest, nights on the beach spent with the possibility hanging heavy on him, his father’s disapproving stare, years of walking away from what he wanted, years of watching Cas walk away from him. Years of pushing away the probability, years of swallowed words. They push up in him, until he’s coming out with–

“It’s why I love you.” 

Cas’ eyes, wide and fearful, light on Dean. His mouth falls open in an ‘O’ of surprise, and Cas never learned how to play it cool, never learned the art of apathy. Dean might care, but so does Cas, and it seems impossible that their two magnets are eternally repelling each other. 

“And I want you around just because.” The words come easier but don’t erase the apprehensive tilt of Cas’ head, the slight glimmer at the edge of his eyes. “And I know that it wasn’t your fault, I know that–And I know that we’ve got this Chuck bullshit hanging over us, but it’s…” 

Here Dean falters. Here his words die, because he doesn’t want to admit to Cas what he already knows–that even though he loves Cas with every ounce of emotion his miserable heart can squeeze out, he’s still a son of a bitch who will punch first and ask questions later and whose first response to any kind of pain is to find the thing that hurt him and hurt it worse. People like that can’t be in relationships. They don’t deserve relationships. 

But maybe Lee was just the tiniest bit right when he asked Dean if they didn’t deserve some kind of happiness in compensation for all the pain. 

“Anyway, if you want me to go, then I can…” Dean gestures towards the door, which finally sparks Cas into some kind of motion. 

Slowly, like he’s moving through liquid or a dream, Cas stands from the bed and makes his way to Dean. Dean forces his body to remain still, even as Cas stands in front of him. One hand reaches out and Dean doesn’t run, he doesn’t flinch, not even when Cas’ hand lands on his left shoulder. 

Something in Dean sings with joy. 

“It’s late,” Cas says. His voice is calm but he can’t quite suppress the edge of awe that’s creeping around the edge of his words. “And I need to sleep.” 

“I can–” Dean jerks his thumb towards the door, but Cas looks up and finally, finally, meet his eyes. 

“You need to sleep,” Cas says, in the same even tone, but his fingers grip Dean’s arm. 

With careful motions, Cas walks them backwards towards the bed. He’s slow, giving Dean every opportunity to back away. And part of Dean wants to, part of Dean wants to run and hide behind his facade of anger and betrayal, part of Dean wants to get in the Impala and drive as far away as he can, because, at the heart of it, he knows that this is never going to work, that the second he gets any kind of happiness, something come along to snatch it away. 

But Cas’ mattress is soft and welcoming, and Cas’ eyes are gentle at the edges as he looks at Dean with a hint of his old reverence. “Sleep,” Cas says, and it’s not forgiveness, it’s not what _needs_ to happen, but at the moment, it’s close enough, which is all Dean’s ever really asked for. 

Cas folds himself into bed behind Dean. He lays, there, immobile and radiating heat and Dean freezes, clutching the blanket around him. The back of his neck prickles with the weight of Cas’ eyes and the world holds its breath in anticipation of what’s to come. 

Cas lays one careful hand to the back of Dean’s neck, right above his shirt collar, at the first knob of his spine. At the first brush of his hand, Dean’s muscles go lax as he sinks into the mattress. After a long moment, Dean rolls over. He presses Cas’ hand to his heart, keeps it there with one of his. 

Lee’s blood is still caked underneath his nails. Chuck is still out there, along with Lilith. Danger hangs over Sam’s head, and as always, the world seems one short step away from plunging off the edge of the abyss. There’s a fragile peace between him and Cas that could shatter with a moment’s carelessness and there are mountains still between them. 

But here, in this liminal space of the night, he and Cas exist in a place without words, in a place where words are extraneous. Here, there’s only the press of Cas’ fingers to the soft thud of his heart, the slow sweep of Dean’s thumb over Cas’ knuckles. Here, there’s just the two of them, pressed close enough together that their knees knock, staring into the other’s eyes until Dean’s eyelids grow heavy. 

“Sleep,” Cas says, blinking slowly. Dean would move the earth for him, would take the whole of heaven, hell, and purgatory and burn them into nothingness if it meant that Cas would be safe. 

He already knows that Cas has done the same for him. 

“I’ll be here in the morning,” Cas tells him. 

Dean sleeps. 

—

_Things were falling apart. We just could not slow down. We were evolving into something greater, perhaps too much for our own good. And one thing always remained as I moved on. I saved a little bit of love just in case you would ever return home.–Robert M. Drake_


	9. 15.08--made in the heart

_There is no such thing as a ‘broken family’. Family is family, and is not determined by marriage certificates, divorce records, or adoption papers. Families are made in the heart. The only time family becomes null is when those ties in the heart are cut. If you cut those ties, those people are not your family. If you make those ties, those people are your family. And if you hate those ties, those people will still be your family because whatever you hate will always be with you.–C. Joybell C._

—

Castiel stares at the flickering, golden light of the portal. It beckons him forward the same time as the bunker beckons him to stay. 

_If you want to stay that badly, then stay_.

Every time he thinks that he’s made headway, every time some of the ice cracks around his heart–Dean seems to sense that, comes in swinging with his words like weapons, honed to the perfect edge to cut him to ribbons. At this point, every interaction with Dean, even the neutral ones, have the potential to leave him bleeding. 

“We need to hurry,” he says, never taking his eyes off the rip. “We only have twelve hours.” 

Dean makes an awkward stutter-step towards the rift, towards him, before he stops. “We need to wait for Sam and Eileen. They can help us or at the very least, keep the rift open from the other side.” 

Castiel takes another step closer to the rift. This close, he can almost smell it, the dank, rotten woods scent of Purgatory. That scent lingered in his nostrils long after he found himself back in the real world. That scent was ingrained into his skin for months after he was walking the earth once more. Even now, it beckons to him with a sick, twisted claw. 

Through that rift is the flower which can help them bind Chuck. Through that rift lies the means of getting justice for his boy. Castiel won’t let anything stop him-not Eileen, not Sam, and certainly not Dean Winchester. 

“Then stay and wait. I’m going.” 

Castiel turns his back on Dean and steps towards the rift. Behind him, he can hear Dean shouting at him–_Cas, you stupid son of a bitch, just wait for a goddamned minute, wait until Sam gets back, you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, Cas WAIT_–

Castiel steps through the portal. Warmth, the bunker, Dean’s voice–They all disappear. The only thing left is the grey, bleached bone hue of Purgatory and the overwhelming sense of hostility pressing against him from all sides. 

Castiel has no idea what a Leviathan blossom looks like. He has no idea where to find one. He has no idea what awaits him, only that it’s likely unpleasant. 

Castiel picks a direction and starts walking.

—

After Cas leaves, Dean is frozen. All he can do is stare at the rift, at the place where Cas disappeared. 

He should know by now, that Cas always walks away. Between the two of them, Cas is always the first to leave. 

He needs to wait for Sam. Twelve hours is nothing, compared to the vast plains of Purgatory. Dean knows–he was there for a year and he knows he came nowhere close to finding the edges of Purgatory. He needs Sam to hold the rift open, on the wild off-chance that they haven’t managed to find a single flower in that span of time. 

He needs to wait for Sam. 

He needs to wait for Sam. 

Cas’ face, when he turned back to the rift–Like he’d already said goodbye, except Dean never heard the words, never felt that kind of closure–he’s never had that kind of closure with Cas, never been able to shove all of his feelings into a neat little box, close the lid, and walk away. Something’s always been unsaid between them. 

Cas’ hand, shaking over his, close enough that he could feel the regular, human warmth of his skin, but not touching. Cas’ face as he turned away, resentful, hurt, and fearful, like he was worried what Dean would do to him. The way that Cas hasn’t been able to be in a room with him for longer than five minutes. 

He needs to wait for Sam. 

He needs–

“God _damn_ it,” Dean snarls, already running towards his room to get his weapons.

—

An angel in Purgatory doesn’t go unnoticed for long. 

Not surprisingly, it’s the Leviathans who find him first. 

Castiel feels them before he sees them–ancient, implacable. 

Hungry. 

Just two, but Leviathans were a formidable opponent when he still had all his grace. Diminished as he is–Castiel hefts his angel blade and reaches for the little bit of grace still flickering dimly inside him. 

The Leviathans appear in a meteor of black goo, their mouths already split into identical grins. “Look who we found,” the first one, a non-descript man, says. 

“Castiel,” the second Leviathan, a woman, croons. “We thought we’d seen the last of you.” Her eyes flick up and down his body. “You’re looking good enough to eat.” 

Castiel doesn’t bother trying to talk his way out. The Leviathans might know the him of years past, but they still know him. They already know his fear; no doubt they can smell it on the air. There’s nothing he can hide from them. 

All that remains is to fight. 

It’s an uneven battle from the beginning–one seraphim against two Leviathan was always doomed to failure. But Castiel tries as hard as he can, the memory of Jack’s last scream echoing in his mind fueling his increasingly desperate motions. 

It ends. Maybe not as quickly as the Leviathans were expecting, but with the same outcome. 

Castiel lays on the ground, pinned, the female’s hand around his throat. “We’ve been waiting so long for you to come back,” she murmurs, throwing her head back. Her face splits, revealing rows and rows of teeth, and this is how it ends, him failing in Purgatory, alone with some of his greatest fears–

Black blood spatters over Castiel’s face as the top half of the woman’s head disappears. He’s frozen in shock, but only for a second, before he’s rolling. Blade in hand, he moves on the male Leviathan. His blade flashes through the air, sending his head rolling. 

Castiel twists, looking for–He doesn’t know what he’s looking for (_Dean_, his heart sings, a joyful chorus, _Dean, he’s always looking for Dean_), but he certainly doesn’t expect what he finds. 

“Well, Feathers, I never thought that I’d be seeing you here again,” Benny drawls, blade propped on his shoulder. 

—

Purgatory welcomes Dean back like he never left. 

It’s intoxicating, the whiff of death and rot that he gets the second he steps through the portal. Within the first moments of being there, Dean feels something crack open in his chest–layers of bullshit, of guilt, human trappings being shed like regrets. 

In his darkest of hearts, Dean can admit that he missed the clarity that came from Purgatory. 

He finds it now, the obsidian blade heavy on his shoulder as he walks through the undergrowth. He can hear the rustlings of creatures, but none dare to accost him–perhaps his legend remains after all this time. 

He doesn’t have the first fucking clue of what a Leviathan blossom is. As far as he can tell, nothing really grows in Purgatory. Everything is in a mild state of decay. He can’t find a bit of ground that isn’t covered by some layer of slimy, molding leaves. He’s just beginning to think that this whole thing was a waste of time–Michael’s getting his revenge after years of neglect–when he hears the sounds of a fight. 

Dean’s heart immediately stutters in his chest–_Cas_, he thinks, fear and horror in his chest, _Cas_–And he’s running before he knows what he’s doing, before he has a chance to even think about a plan. 

It was always easier in Purgatory, to shed all the bullshit trappings. Purgatory pares everything down to the essentials and right now, all that matters is Cas, and the fact that Cas might be in trouble–

His heart leaps into his throat when he sees Cas on the ground, Leviathan’s mouth poised to take a chomp–And then…And then…

Dean carries the weight of Benny around his neck like he carries the weight of all his fallen comrades, his family, those that he wasn’t able to save. Benny, however, stays closer to his heart, pulls him down a little farther. To see him here–Whole, laughing, going so far as to reach out and prod at Cas’ shoulder–Dean bursts out of the undergrowth and into the meadow before he can stop himself. Benny and Cas whirl around, blades at the ready at the sound. When he sees who it is, Benny lowers his blade. 

Cas doesn’t. 

“Hey brother,” Benny greets him, arms already opening in a hug. And for everything surrounding them, Dean hugs back, awash in the simple physical sensation of comfort, if only for a moment. 

Benny pulls back, looks between him and Cas, and Dean can already see his mind working, the wheels turning, the addition happening. It’s a complicated equation that has to put Dean+Castiel together in such a way as to not end up with the final product of Dean and Castiel. 

“You hunting more big-mouths?” is all Benny asks. 

Dean’s eyes flick automatically to Cas, a reflex ingrained through years. He looks to Cas, knowing that Cas will be looking back, because Cas is always looking back–-Cas stares straight ahead at the wilderness of Purgatory, like he could force it to give up its secrets with the sheer force of his will. 

“We’re looking for a flower,” Dean says, ripping his eyes away from Cas and bringing them back to Benny. “We need it to…Well, it’s a long damn story, but we need a Leviathan blossom.” 

Benny’s eyebrows quirk upward. “And what do you need one of those for?”

Dean almost laughs. He yearns for the simplicity of the days when all they had to do was hunt Leviathans or close the gates of Hell. When their enemies were clear and defined and had weaknesses and strengths. When you could just point Dean in a direction, tell him to kill something, and afterward, he could have a beer. When he wasn’t fighting the world and his own stupid brain and the lingering sensation that along the way, he’s irrevocably fucked up. 

“Like I said,” he begins, picking up his blade off the ground. “It’s a long story. You know where any are?”

“I ain’t a damn florist,” Benny begins, but starts walking in a definite direction anyway, “but I just might know where you can get this little flower.” 

Glancing at Cas, who isn’t looking back, Dean follows. 

—

It’s always easier in Purgatory. 

Stripped of the need to sleep or eat, with survival as the only law, priorities become clearer. _Pure_, Dean had called it. At the time he’d meant that he’d turned into a machine, the perfect soldier, the perfect killer, but he doesn’t wonder if he’d also meant something else. Because in Purgatory, Dean looks easier, breathes easier, _wants_ easier. 

In Purgatory, Dean doesn’t pretend that he doesn’t want Cas. 

Last time it led to him tearing a bloody path through the place looking for Cas, flinging prayers into the ether every night in the vain hope that Cas would hear him and come back. This time, it leads to him looking, staring, the same way that Cas used to look at him. Shameless, longing. On the occasions where Benny’s eyes follow his look, Dean doesn’t pretend to be ashamed, doesn’t drop his gaze in mock coyness. 

Dean is running out of reasons why he’s angry at Cas, which is bad, because if he does that, then all that’s left will be regret. 

Benny tells them that they’re going towards a swamp, where the only flowers that he knows of bloom. Dean follows, for lack of any other plan. And Cas…Cas follows Dean, and if Dean deliberately unfocuses his mind, he can pretend that it’s just like old times, him and Cas and Benny tramping their merry way through Purgatory, when the only thing they had to do was survive. 

They’ve moved so far beyond that–Dean doesn’t want to survive, he wants to thrive. He sees it now, reflected back to him in the mossy undergrowth and half-dead plants. He doesn’t want to live from hunt to hunt, monster to monster, always something breathing down his back. He wants to stop, if only for a moment. Wants there to be a reason worth stopping. 

Cas. Cas is the reason, Cas is all the reasons. 

It was always easier, in Purgatory. 

—

They don’t go unnoticed. 

Just like old times, traveling with an angel, even a weakened one, is enough to draw plenty of eyes their way. There are plenty of little skirmishes along the way, fights that are won with little difficulty. Between the three of them, they make quick work of anything unlucky enough or stupid enough to venture across their path. 

It’s after one of these fights, when Dean and Benny are flicking the blood off their blades and Cas is standing on the periphery, doing whatever the fuck he does in Purgatory, that Benny leans in close. 

“So should I ask what’s gong on between you two?”

There was a time that Dean could hide everything from the world. There was a time that no one knew what he was thinking. Now…Rowena, Adam, Benny…apparently he’s an open fucking book for anyone who cares to come along and flip through the pages. 

“It’s fine,” Dean says shortly, because Benny might be one of the best friends he’s ever had, but there are some things that are just too close to the heart for Dean to talk about. 

Benny scoffs, a rueful smile on his face. “Brother, the last time you were here, you tore this place a new one looking for that angel. And now…The hell happened between you that y’all can’t even look at each other? The hell is so bad that you’re gonna let him come back here alone?” 

Shame curls hot in Dean’s gut. Hell, Purgatory, Heaven–how many places has he flung Cas into, alone, just for his sake? How many times has Cas gone, all for the reason that Dean asked him? How many times has Cas demanded that Dean return the favor, that Dean give up something, anything, for him? 

“We’ve got to keep moving,” Dean says gruffly. “There’s a time limit on that portal and I don’t have the time to find another one.” 

—

They find a flower. Whether or not it’s a Leviathan blossom remains unknown, but it’s a fucking flower, and It’s Purgatory, so Dean snatches it. He snatches several, just to be on the safe side. They’re a vicious, vibrant purple, one that seems unnatural in the already unnatural dim light of Purgatory. They’re rimmed with a dull yellow and, when Dean gets too close, give off a sickly sweet scent that would turn his stomach if he’d let it. 

For all that he was chomping at the bit to get to this point, Cas watches Dean pocket the flowers with no words spoken. Dean doesn’t think that they’ve said more than three sentences to each other the entire time that they’ve been here. Part of that is Benny, acting as a natural buffer between them, but part of that is them, the sick poison that’s crept between them, corroding everything in its path until they’re hanging on by a single, rusted thread. 

They’re silent as they walk back towards the portal. Dean is jittery in his skin–no way that it was this easy, no fucking way–Where’s the ticking clock, where’s the monsters descending upon them, where are the obstacles put up in front of them just to make them dance? But it appears like it is that easy, at least for the moment. 

“What are your plans?” Dean finally asks Benny. Even though it was Benny’s choice to stay behind in Purgatory, he’s never quite given up that guilt, never been able to absolve himself of seeing his friend’s head roll on the ground. “We’ve got a portal. No restrictions apply.” 

Benny scuffs the ground with his toe. “It sounds nice,” he admits, before he looks at Dean. “But you know the same problems will just be there waiting for me. Plus, it sounds like your place is kinda going to shit. I’ll stay here. Turns out that I’m pretty good at Purgatory.” 

Dean accepts it without speaking, doesn’t say that he understands, because he was always better at Purgatory as well. 

“In fact, I think this is where I get off the train. You’re close enough that you’ll make your portal with time to spare. I’ll stay behind, try to keep any stragglers off your tail.” 

“You can come with us,” Dean tries again, because it’s been good, having Benny here, having someone who is on his side without needing to hear Dean explain himself thirty times, because Dean’s lost too many friends in this life–

“Naw,” Benny says, face splitting in a grin. “Out there, you’re fighting God. Here, I just get to beat up wolves and vamps. Out of the two of us, I’ve got the easier job.” He claps Dean’s shoulder. “See you on the other side brother.” He nods to Cas before he disappears into the forest. 

Dean spends a long moment staring after him, trying to parse through his emotions to determine what he feels the most. After a few seconds, Cas comes to stand next to him. He doesn’t say anything, which is a comfort, because Dean doesn’t know what the hell he would say in this situation. 

Once upon a time, there would have been a hand on his shoulder, the feel of another body bumping into his. Cas might still be figuring out the intricacies of human comfort, but he learned the lesson about physical contact easily enough. Right now, Dean’s skin is aching for that touch, for that comfort that Cas used to give up so freely. He has to clench every muscle he has and a few that he doesn’t just to stop himself from leaning into Cas. 

“We need to go,” Dean finally says, through gritted teeth. “That portal ain’t staying open forever.” 

—

Cas walks faster than him, so he ends up in front, blade in hand. Dean falls behind, thinking about Benny, about Adam, about Lee, about Sam and Eileen–about a whole bunch of shit that he doesn’t want to think about it. About how every time he and Sam talk about the endgame, Dean always mentions that it would have to be someone who was in the life. Someone who understood. 

About how every time he and Sam describe their endgames, Dean has a little comparative checklist in his head that he goes through, like _Cas can do that_, and _Cas does that_, and _Cas would do that_. 

And he thinks about the last time he was here, about how desperate he’d been to find Cas. About how he spent a year hunting through monsters, covered in blood and dirt, hurling prayers into the night, hoping beyond hope that he’d finally hear something from Cas. About how Benny had said _Forget it, he’s either dead or he ain’t answering, we gotta go_, and Dean had said, _Not Cas. If he ain’t answering then there’s a reason. I told you, I ain’t leaving here until I find him_. And then Cas had a reason, which was _I was doing it to keep you safe_ and–

It’s Cas. It’s always been Cas. 

Dean stops, almost tripping over his own feet as he does so. Ahead of him, Cas continues, implacable as he ever was, but that’s not all he is. Not anymore. Dean can peer close and see the cracks of him, the spaces where Cas has burst out of the skin that he first had, the places where he’s grown into this new, wondrous creature. And Dean’s used those cracks to hurt Cas, slid his words in where they would hurt the most, but he’s done with that now, he just wants–

It was always easier in Purgatory. 

Dean closes his eyes and does the best job he can of calming himself down. Then, he does what he hasn’t done in years–He thinks, hard as he can, at Cas’ retreating back. 

_Castiel._

Ahead of him, he can hear Cas’ footsteps drag to a startled stop. Dean keeps his eyes closed, the better to imagine the soft ‘O’ of surprise that Cas’ mouth always falls into whenever someone manages to get the drop on him. It doesn’t happen often. 

_Cas, you got your ears on?_

Praying like this is a luxury. It always was, moments stolen from the constant blood and filth, seconds where Dean could close his eyes and pretend, just for a second, that there was something golden and his out there. Now, with a clock ticking down the seconds above their head, prayer is an indulgence that they can’t afford. But if not now, then when? If not here, then where? 

_Fix it_, Rowena had said, and Dean had stared at her and hadn’t asked the one word that was on his lips–_How_?

Dean opens his eyes and fixes them on Cas. Cas, who hasn’t turned around, but whose fists are clenched at his side. His spine is a straight rod of tension that radiates outward. 

_I just wanted to…Shit, there’s so much that I need to tell you. I guess I should start by saying that I’m sorry, right? I know that it wasn’t your fault, any of it. I should have told you that before. And I’m sorry for snapping and…shit._

Dean’s eyes close as he realizes just how much he has to apologize for. They don’t have time for him to recount the thoughtless, petty cruelties of past years, all the times he’s snapped at Cas, the times that he’s dumped his frustrations and doubts squarely on Cas’ shoulders. Guy has to carry his own shit; he shouldn’t have to carry Dean’s as well. 

_I just…with all this shit going down, I realized that either one of us could kick it anytime. And I don’t…I don’t want you to think that I hate you._ Rowena’s words echo in his mind, along with Adam’s, along with Lee’s. 

_Fix it._

_Since when do we get what we deserve?_

_Aren’t we owed a little happiness?_

Cas hasn’t turned around, but Dean can see the faint tremors which shake through his body. Without seeing Cas’ face, Dean has no idea of what he’s thinking, so he presses on, heedless, reckless–

_There’s no world where I don’t want you with me. Just because…because Cas. If it ain’t you and me, then it ain’t no good. And I want you with me through all of it–And I know I fucked up, and I’m sorry, and I hope to god that you can believe me when I say that I’m going to try to be better. To do better._

Slowly, like tectonic plates shifting, Cas turns around. His face is a roadmap of the years spent together, the fighting, the bitterness, the loss, the pain, but also of the good stuff–the laughs, the friendship, the flirting, the excited little hitch in Dean’s chest whenever he walks into a room and finds Cas there waiting for him. The reassurance of always having Cas at his side. The peace found in his presence. 

Dean prays, eyes locked on Cas’ face. 

_Whatever kind of future guys like me get…I want you there. Good, bad, more of the same…I want you there. With me._

It’s as close to confession as Dean might ever get. Those three words don’t leave his lips often, but maybe. He looks at Cas’ eyes, gone wide with shock and hope and thinks _maybe one day_. 

Cas moves. He walks towards Dean, away from the portal, with slow, aching steps. Dean trembles as he comes closer, the weight of years pressing down on him, the realization that this might be it wrapping him in cold, clammy arms. 

Cas stands less than an arm’s length away from him. He looks and Dean, and Dean looks at him, and Dean never thought that he would miss the staring between them, but _my god_, seeing Cas’ face is a revelation. 

“We need to hurry,” Cas says finally, his voice soft. Something vulnerable lurks in the spaces between vowels, hangs on the last inflection. 

And as Dean waits, Cas’ hand stretches out towards him, fingers wrapping slowly around his wrist. The pads of Cas’ fingers press against his pulse point, reassuring and soothing and something in Dean that’s been clenched tightly for weeks breaks and relief floods through his body. 

“Cas,” he says, a world held in the single syllable, but Cas just squeezes his wrist. 

“Later,” he says, in that voice that makes Dean believe everything that he says. “Later, I promise.” 

And this time, when he turns back towards the portal, Dean is at his shoulder, their fingers brushing and tangling as they head back home. 

It was always easier in Purgatory. 

—

_There are as many worlds as kinds of days, and as an opal changes its colors and its fires to match the nature of a day, so do I.–John Steinbeck_

—


	10. 15.09--the name of love practiced

_Forgiveness is the name of love practiced amongst those who love poorly. The hard truth is that all people love poorly. We need to forgive and be forgiven every day, every hour increasingly. That is the great work of love among the fellowship of the weak that is the human family.–Henri J.M. Nouwen_

—

Castiel carries the weight of Dean’s prayer. 

It rests around his neck like the sweetest of nooses, like the softest of shackles and he never wants to let it go. 

It’s been years since he’s heard Dean’s voice through the celestial fibers that keep him connected to the universe. Dean was an itinerate petitioner at best, and through the last few years, he’s stopped listening. But when Dean’s voice had clawed through the ever-present static in his mind, it had been enough for Castiel to stop dead in his tracks. 

He can remember before, what it was like–the terror dogging his every step, the constant running, blipping in and out of existence through every facet of Purgatory as he tried to stay ahead of the Leviathan. And through it all–Dean’s prayers followed him. Castiel had hoarded them close to his heart at the same time that he’d fled from them, terrified that the prayers would somehow alert the Leviathan to Dean’s whereabouts, terrified for Dean’s safety, horrified at everything that he’d done–

Castiel swallows and Dean’s prayer moves with the bob of his throat. 

He never told Dean that it’s not just words that get transmitted along the wavelengths of prayer. Feelings seep through the connection as well, if those emotions are strong enough. And Dean…Dean has the purest, strongest emotions that Castiel’s ever encountered. Whatever he’s feeling, he _feels_, with every facet of his body. 

The longing hasn’t changed in almost seven years. 

_I heard your prayer_, he’d said, because he’d also heard what was in Dean’s voice along with the prayer. The yearning had dripped off of every word and it was sweet, it was a balm to whatever he has in place of a soul–and it wasn’t enough. 

And it should have been. It’s everything that he thought he wanted–an apology, recognition, validation…Except it’s not _enough_, and he doesn’t know why, except that he does. 

_There’s something that I need to tell you_, Dean said, hope brimming in his eyes and spilling over his lips and Castiel…Castiel had been unable to hear it. 

—

Sam’s grief hangs over the bunker, even after he goes to bed. Dean floats through the empty spaces and cleans up the lingering remnants of their last chance. A glass put away here, a sigil scrubbed there. 

He comes to the knife still stained with flecks of Cas’ blood. 

Cas’ face had never wavered as the knife sliced through his flesh. He’d never hesitated as he made the decision to take on the Mark, a decision that Dean knows from experience would consume him. Once again, Cas never hesitated before he made the decision to throw himself onto the fire and that…

He doesn’t know what he would have said in Purgatory. Some horrific mangling of the words that have been trying to escape him for over ten years now, no doubt. A garbled version of love and want that got mixed up with self-loathing and anger and deeper, darker versions of the definitions of _friend_, of _love_, of _need_. 

And then Cas had said _I heard your prayer_, which that was all well and good, but there was more. Dean was done then. Done being a coward, done pretending that he didn’t want what he wanted. Done pushing Cas away with some twisted version of heroism motivating him. 

Cas has always deserved better than anything that Dean could give him, but Cas is still here in spite of that, and hell. Dean’s done talking himself out what he wants. 

Cas has pretty much laid all of his cards out on the table. He did a long time ago. 

And with everything that’s happened, Dean wonders why he’s still playing. 

—

He finds Cas in the kitchen. Why Cas likes to hang out here, Dean will never know; it’s not as though he’s hankering for a midnight snack. 

But then he thinks he understands–no matter that their kitchen is industrial in nature, meant to feed a multitude instead of a family, there’s still comfort to be found in the place where food is cooked. There’s a heart in the kitchen that’s missing from every other part of the bunker. Even empty, it speaks of a crowd. 

Maybe that’s why Cas ends up here so often. 

“Hey,” Dean says as he enters. Cas’ head flicks towards him in a quick, convulsive movement. He must be exhausted. It’s rare for Dean to get that kind of reaction out of him. 

“Hey,” Cas replies. His eyes are soft around the edges, not with the hard, hunted slice of past weeks. After a moment, Cas asks, “Did Sam go to bed?”

The thought of the loss lingering in the hollows of Sam’s cheeks and in the downturn of his mouth is another thing that’s going to haunt Dean’s passing thoughts, but now isn’t the time for that. Now is finally the time for him to take something for himself. 

“Yeah, he’s still pretty tore up over Eileen leaving.” Something complicated passes over Cas’ expression and it’s only after a moment that Dean realizes why Cas might be conflicted about that statement. Perfect. 

“Hey, look, Cas, I gotta,” he says at the same time that Cas is saying, “Dean, there’s something that I need–”

They both break off, embarrassed, and wait for the other to speak. When it becomes clear that neither of them are taking the other up on the invitation, Dean gestures to Cas. 

With uncharacteristic fidgeting and hesitation, Cas begins. “I never wanted to leave. Not just…not just then.” Cas’ mouth dips downwards in pain and Dean wants nothing more than to wipe that expression off his face, make it so something that wretched never feels comfortable settling into Cas’ features ever again. “I told you a long time ago that I’d rather be with you than anywhere else.” Cas swallows. The tip of his thumb brushes over the corner of his mouth. When he meets Dean’s eyes, it’s with all the self-assurance of an angel and with all the hope of a man. “That’s never changed.” 

Dean’s knees go weak. He has to grab onto the edge of the table to keep himself upright. It’s a move that brings his hand perilously close to Cas’. He feels the warmth as Cas’ hand settles over his, easy and natural as breathing. 

“Fuck,” he breaths, heat coursing through his body. He locks eyes with Castiel, not afraid, he’s already faced the worst and come out through the other side. “Cas.” His fingers twitch and Castiel’s grip tightens. “You must know. You…you have to know.” 

“Always,” Castiel says, with the patience and understanding of eternity. 

—

So Dean doesn’t say it there in the kitchen. 

But he says it later that night. 

He whispers it into the fine hairs of Cas’ temples, into the stubble-rough skin of his cheek, into the upwards curve of his lips, and into the cleft on his chin. He says it through spit-slick lips, gasps it and murmurs it and pants it until he has no voice left. And even then, he tries to say it through the fingers carding through Cas’ hair and the soft brush of their noses together. 

Cas curls up behind him, solid and immovable, and Dean lets himself sink back into that warmth. He rests his hand over the arm curved protectively around his belly. Against the back of his neck, Cas smiles. Cas’ fingers splay wide on Dean’s stomach. And this time, Dean takes the invitation and slots his fingers neatly into the spaces left for him. 

And then, on the cusp of sleep, he says it again. The words that he never thought he would say to someone other than his blood, the words that he never got to say before, the words that never made it out into the air of Purgatory. 

“I love you,” and they come as easy as anything, as natural as Cas’ smile, or their clasped hands, or a thousand other things that Dean never thought would be possible at all. 

“I love you,” he repeats. The words echo behind him and Dean falls asleep with the knowledge that the world is still ending, that God still has them in his crosshairs, that his little brother’s heart is broken, and that he might still lose it all, but also that he wasn’t too late. 

That he was never too late. 

—

_i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) i am never without it (anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing my darling) i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)–e.e. cummings_

—


	11. 15.11--the calm before the storm

_Happiness is fleeting. Happiness is just the calm before the storm. And the happier you are, the more you have to lose when it hits.–Ranae Glass_

—

Happiness is a razor’s edge. 

Castiel feels it bubbling underneath his skin and chasing itself like lightning storms across his grace. It’s persistent and sly, skirting just around the edges of his perception before darting coyly away, the prettiest girl at the dance wanting his attention. 

_When you finally let the sun shine on your face_, The Empty had said, its mouth stretched wide in a death’s head grin. _When you finally let yourself be happy. That’s when I’ll take you_.

And Castiel had agreed because when was he ever happy? He’s nursed grief like a favored babe, held it close to his chest, nestled it in the folds of his coat, carried it until his hands were bleeding. Happiness was a myth, something meant for others. 

Not for broken failures. 

But now, he can taste happiness at the back of his throat and feel it dancing at his fingertips. It slides along the back of his neck and whispers in his ear. When he walks into a room to find Sam, Dean, and Jack inside, happiness bursts like galaxies in the pit of his belly. 

They’re still fragile around each other, still figuring out how they fit together with their new, jagged edges. They’re no longer the sleek machine of before. Their gears stick, they jam. They’re not smooth, not whole. 

Not yet. 

The longer Jack stays put, the more that he talks to Sam, the better it gets. The more Dean’s eyes soften, the better it gets. 

And happiness haunts his every step. 

—

Castiel takes to locking himself away. In the basement, in his room, in his truck-wherever the Winchesters won’t follow him. He needs to get away. He can’t be around them–Jack laughing as he stretches a piece of cheese as far as it will go, Dean bickering with Sam over the last piece of pizza, all three of them glowing with the calm, sedate light of bliss. 

And happiness brushes against Castiel’s face like cobwebs. 

Dean smiles at him now–little, hesitant things that disappear almost the second that they appear, but Castiel sees them. He sees them all. 

Dean trusts him. Again. Finally. He asks for Castiel’s opinion and takes his advice. When Jack says that Castiel told him something was all right, Dean accepts it. The gift of Dean’s trust unfolds in his hands like the tenderest bloom and it shreds Castiel to lay it aside. But he does and when the pain rips through him, he clings to it. 

Dean’s hand twitches towards him. They never make contact, but the intent is there. And that intent, those smiles…They’ll kill him as sure as anything else in this world. 

So he runs. He makes himself a ghost around the bunker, but the structure isn’t large enough to contain the Winchester’s joy. It bursts from the seams, leaks through the pipes and vents, slithers down his spine until he can feel it inside him. 

And it would be so easy to give in. He wants to. Every part of him yearns for the easy acceptance of Sam’s hand on his shoulder, Jack’s knee pressing into his, Dean’s smile heavy on him. It would be so easy to walk upstairs and partake in the comfort that they’re offering him. 

And it would kill him. 

—

Despite what he says, Dean is not a stupid man. He notices Castiel’s absence and after two days, he comes to find Castiel. 

He’s sneaky about it. He waits until Castiel is elbows deep in reorganizing the stacks in the basement, when all of his considerable concentration is focused on deciphering ancient Sumerian badly written in a shaky hand. He doesn’t even notice Dean until he speaks. 

“So this is where you’ve been hiding lately.” 

Castiel doesn’t jump, and for that he’s proud. He doesn’t turn around as he answers, “The files down here were disorganized. If we’re really looking for a way to defeat God, then we need to have all the information we can at our disposal. Wouldn’t it be awful if the key to everything was misfiled in one of these boxes?”

Dean makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah. Well, I don’t think that you’re finding the answer any time tonight. What is it that you’re even looking at?”

“It’s um…It looks like the writer was attempting a spell to deodorize his shoes.” Castiel glances over the characters and sighs. “Which wouldn’t have worked because he had a faulty translation.” 

This time Dean doesn’t bother to hide his skepticism. “Well. With that fascinating piece of work, I think we can say that your job is done here, right? Come upstairs. Play some Mario Kart. Just…” Something soft and desperate flashes in Dean’s eyes. It’s there and gone before Castiel can really appreciate it, and that’s good; he shouldn’t appreciate it. “The kid’s asking about you. Be nice if you were up there with us.” 

If the words were spoken a few months ago, even a few weeks ago, there would have been venom dripping off of them. But now, Dean just sounds a little sad, a little wistful. 

“We won Cas.” Dean’s fingers worry at a thread on the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s weird, don’t get me wrong, but…Anytime that we get someone back, it’s a win.” 

He smiles and it’s like watching galaxies being born. Happiness curls around Castiel’s chest and works its way up his throat. _When you finally let the sun shine on your face_…

“Come upstairs. Please.” Dean gives him one last, searching look, and turns to walk down the hallway. The sound of him retreating up the stairs echoes through the room. 

Castiel gives one last look to the boxes spread around the room. 

After a long moment, he follows Dean. 

—

“You should tell him,” Jack says, late one night when Sam and Dean are asleep. 

“He doesn’t need to know,” Castiel says, the denial coming more as an automatic reflex than as a conscious thought. 

“Dean doesn’t like being lied to,” Jack says, with the intensity of a schoolboy reciting lessons learned. “And omitting a fact is almost as bad as lying about it.” 

When did Jack become smarter than him? When did his boy grow up? Was it between life and death? Or has Jack always been wiser than him? 

“You should tell him,” Jack says again. “He misses you.” 

—

“Is everything all right?” Sam asks him, a day later. “It’s just…You’ve been…” He waves his hand in what might be considered a reassuring gesture. “Ever since we got Jack back.” 

“I’m fine,” Castiel answers. From the look on Sam’s face, Castiel can tell that he’s not convinced. “It’s just a lot,” he tries. “Jack, and Chuck, and Purgatory…” 

He lets his voice trail off, because it’s the truth, but it’s not all the truth, and for a second, he lets himself wonder what it would be like if he were to come clean. If he were to look at Sam’s face and say, _Sam I’m in trouble because I made a deal. I made a deal and I didn’t think that I would ever have to pay up because the price was my happiness and I didn’t think that such a thing existed. I made a deal and the price was my happiness, and it was supposed to be fine but your family makes me think that I could be happy. I look at your brother and I want to be happy_.

“It’s a lot,” Castiel repeats, and there’s disappointment in Sam’s eyes, but that’s fine. 

Kindness would kill him.

—

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Dean asks, late one night. 

Dean should be asleep but he’s a perverse human that exists to torment Castiel. 

Castiel thought that at one point, when Dean was still the Righteous Man and Castiel still had the honor of a garrison commander. He thought that Dean Winchester’s one mission in life was to thwart Castiel’s every mission. 

And then he got to know Dean and discovered that yes, that was true, but there was so much more to Dean Winchester than mere disobedience. 

“Cas, please. I just…we got Jack back. He’s back and he’s like he should be and…”

Dean’s faltering. Despite his prayer, despite the newfound peace within him and between them, he’s still the hurt, broken man of all those years ago. His edges still scrape against each other. 

But Dean is also ever-changing, like deep waters, and even now, after all these years, he still has the ability to surprise Castiel. 

“Why aren’t you happy?” Dean takes a step forward. The fall of his foot shatters the poor excuse for Castiel’s heart. “I just…I want you to be happy Cas. Please. Tell me what you need.” 

And for a second, Castiel considers spilling the whole, sordid truth. Dean knows about making deals, probably better than almost anyone else. Dean knows about the sick desperation crowding the back of your throat, when a loved one hangs by a mere thread and only your paltry self can save them. 

_Dean doesn’t like being lied to_, Jack said, and Castiel knows that as well. 

Dean’s eyes are soft and earnest, pleading in the dim lamplight. 

And Castiel has always been selfish. 

“I’m fine Dean,” he answers, and watches Dean’s eyes shutter before he turns and walks away. 

—

And still–

The sound of Jack’s laugh twists around his heart. Sam’s smile comes easier these days, especially when he mentions that Eileen might come back, _Just for a weekend_, he says, but the corners of his eyes crease with the force of his smile. And Dean…Dean is softer around them, gentler. He listens to Jack. He runs his thumb over Mary’s initials on the table. He washes the Impala and cooks elaborate dinners for them and makes popcorn on the stove. 

And he doesn’t mention anything to Cas, but the question hangs between them. Castiel clings to it, the tiny, shredding pain, because without it he knows-he’d be lost. 

And he has so, _so_ much to live for. 

—

He wants to be happy. 

He looks at Dean’s hands and he wonders what they feel like. He watches Jack spar with Sam and he longs to be involved. 

This was his family, once. 

He’s the only thing standing in the way of it being that way once again. 

Castiel _wants_, with a fierceness that only rivals his fear. 

—

“Please Cas,” Dean says one night, after he’s had one too many fingers of whiskey, because old habits die hard. “Please. Tell me what you need.” 

And because he knows that Dean won’t remember any of this in the morning, Castiel gives in. He leans in close enough to smell Dean’s skin, the scent of leather and oil clinging to him. 

“I did something stupid,” he whispers, and there’s a brief flare of joy in the admitting of it. “But there was no other option and Jack was in danger…I promised the Empty that it could have me, in exchange for letting Jack go, and it said yes. But not until I was happy. And I thought…I thought that would never happen, but…” 

An iron fist wraps around his chest and even though Castiel doesn’t need to breathe, he still gasps with the pain. “I want to be happy,” he says, the secret dredged up from the deepest part of him. “I look at you and I want…I _want_ so badly, but I can’t because I want to be here more. I’m sorry Dean. I’m so sorry.”

Castiel drops his head onto Dean’s shoulder and takes comfort in the solid warmth of him. He might be mortal, might have been torn apart and patched back together too many times to count, but Dean Winchester can bear the weight of eternity, if only for a few moments. 

“I want, so badly, but I’m afraid,” Castiel whispers. Fuzz from Dean’s shirt coats his lips as he moves his mouth against the soft fabric. “I’m so sorry Dean, I’m sorry.” 

Dean looks at him for one second, his eyes sharpening in understanding, just before Castiel puts a gentle finger to his temple. One swift brush of grace, and Dean’s eyes fall shut. 

—

“I remember what you said.” 

Castiel’s head snaps up. Once again, Dean’s managed to catch him in a moment of weakness; not that he has anything else in Dean’s presence. 

“You can’t be happy. Because if you’re happy, then the Empty comes and takes you.” 

Dean takes a resolute step forward. This time he doesn’t stop until he’s standing directly in front of Castiel. He’s close enough to touch and Castiel’s fingers yearn for contact. Happiness nips at his ankles, scratches its nails over his jaw. 

“You made a deal.” 

Dean’s hands reach out towards him and unlike before, they don’t stop when they’re hovering mere millimeters away from his flesh. Dean’s hand is warm when it cups his face. Castiel can feel callouses formed from years of fighting rubbing against his cheek. He swears that he can almost feel the pulse of Dean’s blood echoed through his body. 

He waits for the rage. For Dean to bluster and snap, for the thin thread holding Dean’s anger at bay to finally unravel. But Dean never snarls, his eyes never darken with fury. Instead, Dean just looks very, very sad. 

“It was for Jack,” Castiel finally says, because he doesn’t regret it, he can’t. Jack is a miracle and worth at least ten of him. If there was anything that Castiel could do, _anything_ in the universe to keep his boy safe–

“I get it.” Dean’s eyes turn misty and Castiel knows what he’s thinking of–Sam Winchester’s body cooling on a rusty mattress frame, the gravel cutting his fingers as he dug at a crossroads, the sour taste of sulfur in his mouth from a kiss. “I know why. I just…Why would you think that you couldn’t tell me?” 

But then Dean stops, because he understands that as well. 

Dean’s fingernails bite into his flesh, a dull pain that races through his veins. “Cas.” He makes the nickname sound an invocation. “I know why, but you know…there’s nothing in this world that we ain’t beat yet. There’s a lot of shit outside of it that we beat too. We’ve got Jack back and even freaking Death wants to lend us a hand.” Dean’s fingers turn Castiel’s face towards his. “Please.”

And Castiel doesn’t know what Dean is asking–_Please keep trying? Please let yourself be happy? Please stop?_ But for once it doesn’t matter. None of it matters because Castiel might be an angel, but he’s not a stone and he can’t pretend to be. Not with Dean in front of him, eyes open and pleading and earnest. 

Castiel leans forward and Dean tilts his head and then his lips are bumping into Dean’s, soft and tender, a gentle greeting of _Hello. There you are_. 

_I found you_. 

Stars burst into supernovas in the pit of his belly and whole worlds are created. Castiel gasps into Dean’s mouth. Dean swallows the sound, his hands gathering Castiel closer. Moisture prickles at the corners of Castiel’s eyes and he can taste the salt of Dean’s tears when he flicks his tongue across Dean’s lips. 

This is _happiness_. Sam upstairs, Jack secure and happy with them once more. Dean’s acceptance and friendship. Dean’s arms wrapped around him, Dean’s mouth pressing into his, the warm glow of Dean’s soul covering his grace. Joy fills him, until he’s more a creature of ecstasy than grace. 

Black crowds at the edges of his vision. 

Castiel shuts his eyes. 

—

_It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.–Chuck Palahniuk_

**Author's Note:**

> If you have ideas, or you just want to come over and yell at me, my tumblr is [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dothwrites). I'm kind of nice, kind of weird.


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